CHRISTMAS  STORY 


.    .  .  >.; 


•    .'* 


WILU  A7VV  H- 

CRANF    **  ,* 

T10N 


.  JSTRATED 
WITH  PICTURES 
FROM  J  S  ' 
THE  FLA 


Tin-:  unit  AH  Y 

I'MUlUSiTY   OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  AINGKU& 


THE  CHRISTMAS  STORY 
FROM   DAVID   HARUM 


WM.    H.    CRANE   AS    DAVID    HARUM 


WM.    H.    CRANE    EDITION 


CHRISTMAS  STORY  FROM 

DAVID  HARUM 

By 
Edward  Noyes  Westcott 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  MR.  CHARLES  FROH- 
MAN'S  PRODUCTION  OF  DAVID  HARUM. 
A  COMEDY  DRAMATIZED  FROM  THE  NOVEL 


NEW   YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
1900 


Copyright,  1898,  1900, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PREFACE 


SPJ^HAVE    done     the     thing     his    own 
Pj^jf  1       way,"    said    Aunt    Polly  to  the 
n.iitSiSml      Widow     Cullom.        "  Kind    o' 
fetched    it    round    fer    a    merry    Chris'mus, 
didn't  he  ?" 

This  is  the  story  which  is  reprinted  here 
from  Mr.  Westcott's  famous  book.  It  was 
David  Harum's  nature  to  do  things  in  his  own 
way,  and  the  quaintness  of  his  methods  in 
raising  the  Widow  Cullom  from  the  depths  of 
despair  to  the  heights  of  happiness  frame  a 
story  which  is  read  between  laughter  and 
tears,  and  always  with  a  quickening  of  affec 
tion  for  the  great-hearted  benefactor.  David 
Harum's  absolute  originality,  his  unexpected 
ness,  the  dryness  of  his  humor,  the  shrewd 
ness  of  his  insight,  and  the  kindliness  and 


2224782 


generosity  beneath  the  surface,  have  made 
him  a  permanent  figure  in  literature.  More 
over,  the  individual  quality  of  David  Harum 
is  so  distinctively  American  that  he  has  been 
recognized  as  the  typical  American,  typical  of 
an  older  generation,  perhaps,  in  mere  exter 
nals,  but  nevertheless  an  embodiment  of  char 
acteristics  essentially  national.  While  only  Mr. 
Westcott's  complete  book  can  fully  illustrate 
the  personality  of  David  Harurn,  yet  it  is 
equally  true  that  no  other  episode  in  the  book 
presents  the  tenderness  and  quaintness,  and 
the  full  quality  of  David  Harum's  character, 
with  the  richness  and  pathos  of  the  story 
which  tells  how  he  paid  the  "int'rist"  upon 
the  "cap'tal"  invested  by  Billy  P.  Fortu 
nately  this  story  lends  itself  readily  to  separate 
publication,  and  it  forms  an  American 
"Christmas  Carol"  which  stands  by  itself,  an 
American  counterpart  of  the  familiar  tale  of 
Dickens,  and  imbued  with  a  simplicity, 
humor,  and  unstudied  pathos  peculiarly  its 
own. 

The  difference  between  the  written  and 
the  acted  tale  is  illustrated  in  the  use  made 
of  the  Christmas  story  in  the  play.  In  the 
book  David  tells  John  Lenox  the  story  of  the 
Widow  Cullom  and  her  dealings  with  'Zeke 


Swinney,  and  reveals  the  truth  to  her  in  his 
office,  and  the  dinner  which  follows  at  his 
house  is  prolonged  by  his  inimitable  tales.  In 
the  play  action  takes  the  place  of  description. 
In  the  first  act  we  see  'Zeke  Swinney  obtain 
ing  blood-money  from  the  widow,  and  the 
latter  makes  the  acquaintance  of  Mary  Blake, 
newly  entered  upon  her  career  of  independ 
ence  as  Cordelia  Prendergast.  In  the  second 
act  we  see  the  widow  giving  the  second 
mortgage  to  David,  and  thereby  strengthen 
ing  Mary  Blake's  suspicions,  and  in  the  third 
act  David  pictures  his  dreary  youth  and  Billy 
P.'s  act  of  kindness,  and  brings  the  widow  to 
her  own,  the  climax  coming  with  the  toast 
which  opens  the  dinner  and  closes  the  play. 
It  was  a  delicate  and  difficult  task  for  even  so 
distinguished  an  actor  as  Mr.  Crane  to  under 
take  a  part  already  hedged  about  by  conflict 
ing  theories;  but  his  insight  and  his  devotion 
to  the  character  have  succeeded  in  actually 
placing  before  us  the  David  Harum  created  by 
Mr.  Westcott. 

The  illustrations  of  this  book,  reproduced 
from  stage  photographs  by  the  courtesy  of 
Mr.  Charles  Frohman,  include  the  best  pic 
tures  of  Mr.  Crane  in  character,  and  also  stage 
views  of  scenes  in  the  second  and  third  acts, 


which  show  the  development  and  culmination 
of  the  Widow  Cullom  episode.  The  Christ 
mas  Story  is  now  published  separately  for 
the  first  time  in  this  volume,  which  unites  a 
permanent  literary  value  with  the  peculiar 
interest  of  Mr.  Crane's  interpretations  of  the 
famous  character. 

After  many  discouragements,  the  author  of 
David  Harum  lived  long  enough  to  know  that 
his  book  had  found  appreciation  and  was  to 
be  published,  but  he  died  before  it  appeared. 

Edward  Noyes  Westcott,  the  son  of  Dr. 
Amos  Westcott,  a  prominent  physician  of 
Syracuse,  and  at  one  time  mayor  of  the  city, 
was  born  September  27,  1846.  Nearly  all  his 
life  was  passed  in  his  native  city  of  Syracuse. 
His  active  career  began  early  at  a  bank  clerk's 
desk,  and  he  was  afterward  teller  and  cashier, 
then  head  of  the  firm  of  Westcott  &  Abbott, 
bankers  and  brokers,  and  in  his  later  years  he 
acted  as  the  registrar  and  financial  expert  of 
the  Syracuse  Water  Commission.  His  artistic 
temperament  found  expression  only  in  music 
until  the  last  years  of  his  life.  He  wrote 
articles  occasionally  upon  financial  subjects, 
but  it  was  not  until  the  approach  of  his  last 
illness  that  he  began  David  Harum.  No  char- 


acter  in  this  book  is  taken  directly  from  life. 
Stories  which  his  father  had  told  and  his  own 
keen  observations  and  lively  imagination  fur 
nished  his  material,  but  neither  David  Harum 
nor  any  other  character  is  a  copy  of  any  indi 
vidual.  No  trace  of  the  author's  illness 
appears  in  the  book.  ''I've  had  the  fun  of 
writing  it,  anyway,"  he  wrote  shortly  before 
his  death,  "and  no  one  will  laugh  over  David 
more  than  I  have.  I  never  could  tell  what 
David  was  going  to  do  next."  This  was 
the  spirit  of  the  brave  and  gentle  author, 
who  died  March  31,  1898,  unconscious  of  the 
fame  which  was  to  follow  him. 

R.  H. 

NEW  YORK,  August,  1900. 


•  H  •  CRANE 
Edition 

The  Christmas  Story 
from  David  Harum 


CHAPTER   I 

T  was   the   2}d   of  December, 
and   shortly  after  the  closing 
hour.       Peleg    had    departed 
and  our  friend  had  just  locked 
the  vault   when    David   came 
into  the  office  and  around  behind  the  counter. 
"  Be  you  in  any  hurry  ?  "  he  asked. 
John   said    he   was   not,    whereupon   Mr. 
Harum  hitched  himself  up  on  to  a  high  office 
stool,    with   his   heels  on    the    spindle,    and 
leaned  sideways  upon  the  desk,  while  John 
stood  facing  him  with  his  left  arm  upon  the 
desk. 

"John,"  said  David,  "do  ye  know  the 
Widdo'  Cullom?" 

"No,"  said  John,  "but  I  know  who  she 
is — a  tall,  thin  woman,  who  walks  with  a 
slight  stoop  and  limp.  I  noticed  her  and 
asked  her  name  because  there  was  something 
about  her  looks  that  attracted  my  attention — 


as  though  at  some  time  she  might  have  seen 
better  days." 

"That's  the  party,"  said  David.  "She 
has  seen  better  days,  but  she's  eat  an'  drunk 
sorro'  mostly  fer  goin'  on  thirty  year,  an' 
darned  little  else  a  good  share  o'  the  time,  I 
reckon." 

"She  has  that  appearance  certainly,"  said 
John. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "she's  had  a  putty 
tough  time,  the  widdo'  has,  an'  yet,"  he  pro 
ceeded  after  a  momentary  pause,  "the'  was  a 
time  when  the  Culloms  was  some  o'  the  king 
pins  o'  this  hull  region.  They  used  to  own 
quarter  o'  the  county,  an'  they  lived  in  the 
big  house  up  on  the  hill  where  Doc  Hays  lives 
now.  That  was  considered  to  be  the  finest 
place  anywheres  'round  here  in  them  days. 
I  used  to  think  the  Capitol  to  Washington 
must  be  somethin'  like  the  Cullom  house,  an' 
that  Billy  P.  (folks  used  to  call  him  Billy  P. 
'cause  his  father's  name  was  William  an'  his 
was  William  Parker),  an'  that  Billy  P.  'd  jest 
's  like  's  not  be  president.  I've  changed  my 
mind  some  on  the  subject  of  presidents  since 
I  was  a  boy." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  turned  on  his  stool,  put 
his  right  hand  into  his  sack-coat  pocket,  ex- 


tracted  therefrom  part  of  a  paper  of  "Maple 
Dew,"  and  replenished  his  left  cheek  with  an 
ample  wad  of  "fine-cut."  John  took  advan 
tage  of  the  break  to  head  off  what  he  had 
reason  to  fear  might  turn  into  a  lengthy 
digression  from  the  matter  in  hand  by  saying, 
"I  beg  pardon,  but  how  does  it  happen  that 
Mrs.  Cullom  is  in  such  circumstances  ?  Has 
the  family  all  died  out  ?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "they're  most  on 
'em  dead,  all  on  'em,  in  fact,  except  the  wid- 
do's  son.  Charley,  but  as  fur  's  the  family  's 
concerned,  it  more  'n  died  out — it  gin  out! 
'D  ye  ever  hear  of  Jim  Wheton's  calf?  Wa'al, 
Jim  brought  three  or  four  veals  into  town  one 
spring  to  sell.  Dick  Larrabee  used  to  peddle 
meat  them  days.  Dick  looked  'em  over  an' 
says,  'Look  here,  Jim,'  he  says,  'I  guess  you 
got  a  "deakin"  in  that  lot,'  he  says.  'I 
dunno  what  you  mean,'  says  Jim.  'Yes,  ye 
do,  goll  darn  ye!'  says  Dick,  'yes,  ye  do. 
You  didn't  never  kill  that  calf,  an'  you  know 
it.  That  calf  died,  that's  what  that  calf  done. 
Come,  now,  own  up,'  he  says.  'Wa'al,'  says 
Jim,  '  I  didn't  kill  it,  an'  it  didn't  die  nuther — 
it  jes'  kind  o'  gin  out,' ' 

John  joined  in  the  laugh  with  which  the 
narrator  rewarded  his  own  effort,  and  David 
3 


went  on:  "Yes,  sir,  they  jes'  petered  out. 
Old  Billy,  Billy  P.'s  father,  inher'tid  all  the 
prop'ty — never  done  a  stroke  of  work  in  his 
life.  He  had  a  collige  education,  went  to 
Europe,  an'  all  that,  an'  before  he  was  fifty 
year  old  he  hardly  ever  come  near  the  old 
place  after  he  was  growed  up.  The  land  was 
all  farmed  out  on  shares,  an'  his  farmers 
mostly  bamboozled  him  the  hull  time.  He 
got  consid'able  income,  of  course,  but  as 
things  went  along  and  they  found  out  how 
slack  he  was  they  kept  bitin'  off  bigger  chunks 
all  the  time,  an'  sometimes  he  didn't  git  even 
the  core.  But  all  the  time  when  he  wanted 
money — an'  he  wanted  it  putty  often,  I  tell  ye 
— the  easiest  way  was  to  stick  on  a  morgige ; 
an'  after  a  spell  it  got  so  't  he'd  have  to  give 
a  morgige  to  pay  the  int'rist  on  the  other 
morgiges." 

"But,"  said  John,  "was  there  nothing  to 
the  estate  but  land  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  David,  "old  Billy's  father 
left  him  some  consid'able  pers'nal,  but  after 
that  was  gone  he  went  into  the  morgige 
bus'nis  as  I  tell  ye.  He  lived  mostly  up  to 
Syrchester  and  around,  an'  when  he  got  mar 
ried  he  bought  a  place  in  Syrchester  and  lived 
there  till  Billy  P.  was  about  twelve  or  thir- 
4 


teen  year  old,  an'  he  was  about  fifty.     By  that 
time  he'd  got  'bout  to  the  end  of  his  rope,  an' 


the'  wa'n't  nothin'  for  it  but  to  come  back 
here  to  Homeville  an'  make  the  most  o'  what 
the*  was  left — an'  that's  what  he   done,   let 
2  5 


alone  that  he  didn't  make  the  most  on't  to  any 
pertic'ler  extent.  Mis'  Cullom,  his  wife,  wa'n't 
no  help  to  him.  She  was  a  city  woman  an' 
didn't  take  to  the  country  no  way,  but  when 
she  died  it  broke  old  Billy  up  wus  'n  ever. 
She  peaked  an'  pined,  an'  died  when  Billy  P. 
was  about  fifteen  or  so.  Wa'al,  Billy  P.  an' 
the  old  man  wrastled  along  somehow,  an'  the 
boy  went  to  collige  fer  a  year  or  so.  How 
they  ever  got  along  's  they  did  I  dunno.  The' 
was  a  story  that  some  far-off  relation  left  old 
Billy  some  money,  an'  I  guess  that  an'  what 
they  got  off' m  what  farms  was  left  carried 
'em  along  till  Billy  P.  was  twenty-five  or  so, 
an'  then  he  up  an'  got  married.  That  was  the 
crownin'  stroke,"  remarked  David.  "She 
was  one  o'  the  village  girls — respectable  folks, 
more  'n  ordinary  good  lookin'  an'  high  step- 
pin',  an'  had  had  some  schoolin'.  But  the 
old  man  was  prouder  'n  a  cock-turkey,  an' 
thought  nobody  wa'n't  quite  good  enough  fer 
Billy  P.,  an'  all  along  kind  o'  reckoned  that 
he'd  marry  some  money  an'  git  a  new  start. 
But  when  he  got  married — on  the  quiet,  you 
know,  cause  he  knowed  the  old  man  would 
kick — wa'al,  that  killed  the  trick,  an'  the  old 
man  into  the  bargain.  It  took  the  gumption 
all  out  of  him,  an'  he  didn't  live  a  year. 
6 


Wa'al,  sir,  it  was  curious,  but,  's  I  was  told, 
putty  much  the  hull  village  sided  with  the  old 
man.  The  Culloms  was  kind  o'  kings  in  them 
days,  an'  folks  wa'n't  so  one-man's-good's- 
anotherish  as  they  be  now.  They  thought 
Billy  P.  done  wrong,  though  they  didn't  have 
nothin'  to  say  'gainst  the  girl  neither — an' 
she's  very  much  respected,  Mis'  Cullom  is,  an' 
as  fur's  I'm  concerned,  I've  alwus  guessed  she 
kept  Billy  P.  goin'  full  as  long 's  any  one 
could.  But  't  wa'n't  no  use — that  is  to  say, 
the  sure  thing  come  to  pass.  He  had  a  nom'- 
nal  title  to  a  good  deal  o'  prop'ty,  but  the 
equity  in  most  on't  if  it  had  ben  to  be  put  up 
wa'n't  enough  to  pay  fer  the  papers.  You 
see,  the'  ain't  never  ben  no  real  cash  value  in 
farm  prop'ty  in  these  parts.  The'  ain't  ben 
hardly  a  dozen  changes  in  farm  titles,  'cept  by 
inher'tance  or  foreclosure,  in  thirty  years.  So 
Billy  P.  didn't  make  no  effort.  Int'rist's  one 
o'  them  things  that  keeps  right  on  nights  an' 
Sundays.  He  jest  had  the  deeds  made  out 
an'  handed  'em  over  when  the  time  came  to 
settle.  The'  was  some  village  lots  though  that 
was  clear,  that  fetched  him  in  some  money 
from  time  to  time  until  they  was  all  gone  but 
one,  an'  that's  the  one  Mis'  Cullom  lives  on 
now.  It  was  consid'able  more'n  a  lot — in  fact, 
7 


a  putty  sizable  place.  She  thought  the  sun 
rose  an'  set  where  Billy  P.  was,  but  she  took 
a  crotchit  in  her  head,  and  wouldn't  ever  sign 
no  papers  fer  that,  an'  lucky  fer  him  too. 
The'  was  a  house  on  to  it,  an'  he  had  a  roof 
over  his  head  anyway  when  he  died  six  or 
seven  years  after  he  married,  an'  left  her  with 
a  boy  to  raise.  How  she  got  along  all  them 
years  till  Charley  got  big  enough  to  help,  1 
swan!  I  don't  know.  She  took  in  sewin'  an' 
washin',  an'  went  out  to  cook  an'  nurse,  an' 
all  that,  but  I  reckon  the'  was  now  an'  then 
times  when  they  didn't  overload  their  stom- 
echs  much,  nor  have  to  open  the  winders  to 
cool  off.  But  she  held  on  to  that  prop'ty  of 
her'n  like  a  pup  to  a  root.  It  was  putty 
well  out  when  Billy  P.  died,  but  the  vil 
lage  has  growed  up  to  it.  The's  some  good 
lots  could  be  cut  out  on't,  an'  it  backs  up 
to  the  river  where  the  current's  enough  to 
make  a  mighty  good  power  fer  a  'lectric  light. 
I  know  some  fellers  that  are  talkin'  of  startin' 
a  plant  here,  an'  it  ain't  out  o'  sight  that 
they'd  pay  a  good  price  fer  the  river  front,  an' 
enough  land  to  build  on.  Fact  on't  is,  it's  got 
to  be  a  putty  valu'ble  piece  o'  prop'ty,  more  'n 
she  cal'lates  on,  I  reckon." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  paused,  pinching  his  chin 
8 


with  thumb  and  index  finger,  and  mumbling 
his  tobacco.  John,  who  had  listened  with 
more  attention  than  interest — wondering  the 
while  as  to  what  the  narrative  was  leading  up 
to — thought  something  might  properly  be 
expected  of  him  to  show  that  he  had  followed 
it,  and  said,  "So  Mrs.  Cullom  has  kept  this 
last  piece  clear,  has  she  ?  " 

"No,"  said  David,  bringing  down  his  right 
hand  upon  the  desk  with  emphasis,  "that's 
jes'  what  she  hain't  done,  an'  that's  how  I 
come  to  tell  ye  somethin'  of  the  story,  an' 
more  on't  'n  you've  cared  about  hearin', 
mebbe." 

"Not  at  all,"  John  protested.  "I  have 
been  very  much  interested." 

"You  have,  have  you?"  said  Mr.  Harum. 
"  Wa'al,  I  got  somethin'  I  want  ye  to  do. 
Day  after  to-morro'  's  Chris'mus,  an'  I  want 
ye  to  drop  Mis'  Cullom  a  line,  somethin'  like 
this,  '  That  Mr.  Harum  told  ye  to  say  that 
that  morgige  he  holds,  havin'  ben  past  due 
fer  some  time,  an'  no  int'rist  havin'  ben  paid 
fer,  let  me  see,  more'n  a  year,  he  wants  to 
close  the  matter  up,  an'  he'll  see  her  Chris' 
mus  mornin'  at  the  bank  at  nine  o'clock,  he 
havin'  more  time  on  that  day  ;  but  that, 
as  fur  as  he  can  see,  the  bus'nis  won't  take 
9 


very    long'-— some- 
thin'    like    that, 
you  under 
stand  ?" 

"  Very 
well,  sir," 
said  John, 
hoping  that 
his  employ 
er  would 
not  see  in 
his  face  the 
disgust  and 
repugnance  he 
felt  as  he  sur 
mised  what  a  scheme  was  on  foot,  and  re 
called  what  he  had  heard  of  Harum's  hard 
and  unscrupulous  ways,  though  he  had  to 
admit  that  this,  excepting  perhaps  the  episode 
of  the  counterfeit  money,  was  the  first  reve 
lation  to  him  personally.  But  this  seemed 
very  bad  indeed. 

''All  right,"  said  David  cheerfully,  "I  s'pose 
it  won't  take  you  long  to  find  out  what's  in 
your  stockin',  an'  if  you  hain't  nothin'  else  to 
do  Chris'rnus  mornin'  I'd  like  to  have  you 
open  the  office  an'  stay  'round  a  spell  till  I 
git  through  with  Mis'  Cullom.  Mebbe  the*  '11 


be  some  papers  to  fill  out  or  witniss  or  some- 
thin'  ;  an'  have  that  skeezicks  of  a  boy  make 
up  the  fires  so'st  the  place'll  be  warm." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  John,  hoping  that 
the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

But  the  elder  man  sat  for  some  minutes 
apparently  in  a  brown  study,  and  occasionally 
a  smile  of  sardonic  cunning  wrinkled  his  face. 
At  last  he  said  :  "  I've  told  ye  so  much  that  I 
may  as  well  tell  ye  how  I  come  by  that  mor- 
gidge.  Twon't  take  but  a  minute,  an*  then 
you  can  run  an'  play,"  he  added  with  a 
chuckle. 

"I  trust  I  have  not  betrayed  any  impa 
tience,"  said  John,  and  instantly  conscious  of 
his  infelicitous  expression,  added  hastily,  "1 
have  really  been  very  much  interested." 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "you  hain't 
betrayed  none,  but  I  know  old  fellers  like  me 
gen'rally  tell  a  thing  twice  over  while  they're 
at  it.  Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "it  was  like  this. 
After  Charley  Cullom  got  to  be  some  grown 
he  helped  to  keep  the  pot  a-bilin',  'n  they 
got  on  some  better.  'Bout  seven  year  ago, 
though,  he  up  an'  got  married,  an'  then  the 
fat  ketched  fire.  Finally  he  allowed  that  if  he 
had  some  money  he'd  go  West  'n  take  up 
some  land,  'n  git  along  like  pussly  'n  a  flower 
n 


gard'n.  He  ambitioned  that  if  his  mother  'd 
raise  a  thousan'  dollars  on  her  place  he'd  be 
sure  to  take  care  of  the  int'rist,  an'  prob'ly  pay 
off  the  princ'pal  in  almost  no  time.  Wa'al, 
she  done  it,  an'  off  he  went.  She  didn't  come 
to  me  fer  the  money,  because — I  dunno — at 
any  rate  she  didn't,  but  got  it  of  'Zeke 
Swinney. 

"Wa'al,  it  turned  out  jest  's  any  fool 
might  Ve  predilictid,  fer  after  the  first  year, 
when  I  reckon  he  paid  it  out  of  the  thousan', 
Charley  never  paid  no  int'rist.  The  second 
year  he  was  jes'  gettin'  goin',  an'  the  next 
year  he  lost  a  hoss  jest  's  he  was  cal'latin'  to 
pay,  an'  the  next  year  the  grasshoppers  smote 
him,  'n  so  on;  an'  the  outcome  was  that  at 
the  end  of  five  years,  when  the  morgige  had 
one  year  to  run,  Charley'd  paid  one  year,  an' 
she'd  paid  one,  an*  she  stood  to  owe  three 
years'  int'rist.  How  old  Swinney  come  to 
hold  off  so  was  that  she  used  to  pay  the  cuss 
ten  dollars  or  so  ev'ry  six  months  'n  git  no 
credit  fer  it,  an'  no  receipt  an'  no  witniss,  'n 
he  knowed  the  prop'ty  was  improving  all  the 
time.  He  may  have  had  another  reason,  but 
at  any  rate  he  let  her  run,  an'  got  the  shave 
reg'lar.  But  at  the  time  I'm  tellin'  you  about 
he'd  begun  to  cut  up,  an'  allowed  that  if  she 


didn't  settle  up  the  int'rist  he'd  foreclose,  an' 
1  got  wind  on't  an'  I  run  across  her  one  day 
an'  got  to  talkin'  with  her,  an'  she  gin  me  the 
hull  narration.  '  How  much  do  you  owe  the 
old  critter?'  I  says.  'A  hunderd  an'  eighty 
dollars,'  she  says,  'an'  where  I'm  goin'  to  git 
it,'  she  says,  'the  Lord  only  knows.'  'An' 
He  won't  tell  ye,  I  reckon,'  1  says.  Wa'al, 
of  course  I'd  known  that  old  Swinney  had  a 
morgidge  because  it  was  a  matter  of  record, 
an'  I  knowed  him  well  enough  to  give  a  guess 
what  his  game  was  goin'  to  be,  an'  more'n 
that  I'd  had  my  eye  on  that  piece  an'  parcel 
an'  I  figured  that  he  wa'n't  any  likelier  a  citi 
zen  'n  I  was."  ("Yes,"  said  John  to  himself, 
"where  the  carcase  is  the  vultures  are  gath 
ered  together.") 

"  'Wa'al,'  I  says  to  her,  after  we'd  had  a 
little  more  talk,  '  s'posen  you  come  'round  to 
my  place  to-morro'  'bout  'leven  o'clock,  an' 
mebbe  we  c'n  cipher  this  thing  out.  I  don't 
say  positive  that  we  kin,'  I  says,  'but  mebbe, 
mebbe.'  So  that  afternoon  I  sent  over  to  the 
county  seat  an'  got  a  description  an'  had  a 
second  morgige  drawed  up  fer  two  hundred 
dollars,  an'  Mis'  Cullom  signed  it  mighty 
quick.  I  had  the  morgige  made  one  day 
after  date,  'cause,  as  I  said  to  her,  it  was  in 
•3 


the  nature  of  a  temp'rary  loan,  but  she  was  so 
tickled  she'd  have  signed  most  anythin'  at  that 
pertic'ler  time.  'Now,'  I  says  to  her,  'you  go 
an'  settle  with  old  Step-an'-fetch-it,  but  don't 
you  say  a  word  where  you  got  the  money,'  1 
says.  '  Don't  ye  let  on  nothin' — stretch  that 
conscience  o'  your'n  if  nes'sary,'  I  says,  'an' 
be  pertic'ler  if  he  asks  you  if  Dave  Harum  give 
ye  the  money  you  jes'  say,  "No,  he  didn't." 
That  won't  be  no  lie,'  1  says,  'because  I  ain't 
givin'  it  to  ye,'  I  says.  Wa'al,  she  done  as  I 
told  her.  Of  course  Swinney  suspicioned  fust 
off  that  I  was  mixed  up  in  it,  but  she  stood 
him  off  so  fair  an'  square  that  he  didn't  know 
jes'  what  to  think,  but  his  claws  was  cut  fer  a 
spell,  anyway. 

"Wa'al,  things  went  on  fer  a  while,  till  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  relieve 
Swinney  of  some  of  his  anxieties  about 
worldly  bus'nis,  an'  I  dropped  in  on  him  one 
mornin'  an'  passed  the  time  o'  day,  an'  after 
we'd  eased  up  our  minds  on  the  subjects  of 
each  other's  health  an'  such  like  I  says,  '  You 
hold  a  morgige  on  the  Widder  Cullom's 
place,  don't  ye?'  Of  course  he  couldn't  say 
nothin'  but  'yes.'  'Does  she  keep  up  the 
int'rist  all  right  ? '  I  says.  '  I  don't  want  to  be 
pokin'  my  nose  into  your  bus'nis,'  I  says, 

'4 


'an'  don't  tell  me  nothin'  you  don't  want  to.' 
Wa'al,  he  knowed  Dave  Harum  was  Dave 
Harum,  an'  that  he  might  's  well  speak  it  out, 
an'  he  says,  '  Wa'al,  she  didn't  pay  nothin'  fer 
a  good  while,  but  last  time  she  forked  over 
the  hull  amount.  But  1  hain't  no  notion,'  he 
says,  'that  she'll  come  to  time  agin.'  'An' 
s'posin'  she  don't,'  I  says,  'you'll  take  the 
prop'ty,  won't  ye?'  'Don't  see  no  other 
way,'  he  says,  an'  lookin'  up  quick,  'unless 
you  over-bid  me,'  he  says.  'No,'  1  says,  '1 
ain't  buyin'  no  real  estate  jes'  now,  but  the 
thing  I  come  in  fer,'  I  says,  '  leavin'  out  the 
pleasure  of  havin'  a  talk  with  you,  was  to 
say  that  I'd  take  that  morgige  off' m  your 
hands.' 

"Wa'al,  sir,  he,  he,  he,  he!  Scat  my—  — ! 
At  that  he  looked  at  me  fer  a  minute  with  his 
jaw  on  his  neck,  an'  then  he  hunched  him 
self,  'n  drawed  in  his  neck  like  a  mud  turtle. 
'No,'  he  says,  '  I  ain't  sufferin'  fer  the  money, 
an'  I  guess  I'll  keep  the  morgige.  It's  putty 
near  due  now,  but  mebbe  I'll  let  it  run  a  spell. 
I  guess  the  secur'ty:s  good  fer  it.'  'Yes,'  I 
says,  '  I  reckon  you'll  let  it  run  long  enough 
fer  the  widder  to  pay  the  taxes  on't  once  more 
anyhow;  I  guess  the  secur'ty's  good  enough 
to  take  that  resk;  but  how  'bout  my  secur'ty?' 

16 


I  says.  '  What  d'you  mean  ? '  he  says.  '  I 
mean,'  says  I,  'that  I've  got  a  second  mor- 
gige  on  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  begin  to  tremble 
fer  my  secur'ty.  You've  jes'  told  me,'  I  says, 
'that  you're  goin'  to  foreclose  an'  I  cal'late  to 
protect  myself,  an'  I  don't  cal'late,'  I  says,  'to 
have  to  go  an'  bid  on  that  prop'ty,  an'  put  in 
a  lot  more  money  to  save  my  investment, 
unless  I'm  'bleeged  to — not  much!  an'  you 
can  jes'  sign  that  morgige  over  to  me,  an'  the 
sooner  the  quicker,'  I  says." 

David  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  thigh 
with  a  vigorous  slap,  the  fellow  of  the  one 
which,  John  could  imagine,  had  emphasized 
his  demand  upon  Swinney.  The  story,  to 
which  he  had  at  first  listened  with  polite 
patience  merely,  he  had  found  more  interest 
ing  as  it  went  on,  and,  excusing  himself,  he 
brought  up  a  stool,  and  mounting  it,  said, 
"And  what  did  Swinney  say  to  that?"  Mr. 
Harum  emitted  a  gurgling  chuckle,  yawned 
his  quid  out  of  his  mouth,  tossing  it  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  general  direction  of  the  waste 
basket,  and  bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  which 
he  found  by  slapping  his  waistcoat  pockets. 
John  got  down  and  fetched  him  a  match, 
which  he  scratched  in  the  vicinity  of  his  hip 
pocket,  lighted  his  cigar  (John  declining  to 

17 


join  him  on  some  plausible  pretext,  having 
on  a  previous  occasion  accepted  one  of  the 
brand),  and  after  rolling  it  around  with  his 
lips  and  tongue  to  the  effect  that  the  lighted 
end  described  sundry  eccentric  curves,  located 
it  firmly  with  an  upward  angle  in  the  left- 
hand  corner  of  his  mouth,  gave  it  a  couple 
of  vigorous  puffs,  and  replied  to  John's 
question. 

"  Wa'al,  'Zeke  Swinney  was  a  perfesser 
of  religion  some  years  ago,  an'  mebbe  he  is 
now,  but  what  he  said  to  me  on  this  pertic'ler 
occasion  was  that  he'd  see  me  in  hell  fust,  'an 
then  he  wouldn't. 

"'Wa'al,'  I  says,  'mebbe  you  won't, 
mebbe  you  will,  it's  alwus  a  pleasure  to  meet 
ye,'  1  says,  'but  in  that  case  this  morgige 
bus'nis  '11  be  a  question  fer  our  executors,'  I 
says,  '  fer  you  don't  never  foreclose  that  mor 
gige,  an'  don't  you  fergit  it,'  I  says. 

"'Oh,  you'd  like  to  git  holt  o'  that 
prop'ty  yourself.  1  see  what  you're  up  to,' 
he  says. 

"'Look  a-here,  'Zeke  Swinney,'  I  says, 
'  I've  got  an  int'rist  in  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  pro 
pose  to  p'tect  it.  You're  goin'  to  sign  that 
morgige  over  to  me,  or  I'll  foreclose  an'  sur- 
rygate  ye,'  I  says,  '  unless  you  allow  to  bid  in 
18 


the  prop'ty,  in  which  case  we'll  see  whose 
weasel-skin's  the  longest.  But  I  guess  it 
won't  come  to  that,'  I  says.  'You  kin  take 
your  choice,'  I  says.  '  Whether  I  want  to  git 
holt  o'  that  prop'ty  myself  ain't  neither  here 
nor  there.  Mebbe  1  do,  an'  mebbe  I  don't, 
but  anyways,'  I  says,  'you  don't  git  it,  nor 
wouldn't  ever,  for  if  I  can't  make  you  sign 
over,  I'll  either  do  what  I  said  or  I'll  back  the 
widder  in  a  defence  fer  usury.  Put  that  in 
your  pipe  an'  smoke  it,'  I  says. 

"'What  do  you  mean?'  he  says,  gittin' 
half  out  his  chair. 

"'I  mean  this,'  I  says,  'that  the  fust  six 
months  the  widder  couldn't  pay  she  gin  you 
ten  dollars  to  hold  off,  an'  the  next  time 
she  gin  you  fifteen,  an'  that  you've  bled 
her  fer  shaves  to  the  tune  of  sixty  odd  dol 
lars  in  three  years,  an'  then  got  your  int'rist 
in  full.' 

"That  riz  him  clean  out  of  his  chair," 
said  David.  "'She  can't  prove  it,'  he  says, 
shakin'  his  fist  in  the  air. 

"'Oh,  ho!  ho!'  I  says,  tippin'  my  chair 
back  agin  the  wall.  '  If  Mis'  Cullom  was 
to  swear  how  an'  where  she  paid  you  the 
money,  givin'  chapter  an'  verse,  and  showin' 
her  own  mem'randums  even,  an'  I  was  to 


swear  that  when   I   twitted  you  with  gittin' 
it  you  didn't  deny  it,  but  only  said  that  she 


couldn't  prove  it,  how  long  do  you  think  it 
'ould  take  a  Freeland  County  jury  to  find  agin 
ye?  I  allow,  'Zeke  Swinney,'  I  says,  'that  you 
wa'n't  born  yestid'y,  but  you  ain't  so  old  as 
3  21 


you  look,  not  by  a  dum  sight! '  an*  then  how 
I  did  laugh! 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  as  he  got  down  off 
the  stool  and  stretched  himself,  yawning,  "I 
guess  I've  yarned  it  enough  fer  one  day. 
Don't  fergit  to  send  Mis'  Cullom  that  notice, 
an'  make  it  up  an'  up.  I'm  goin'  to  git  the 
thing  off  my  mind  this  trip." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  John,  "but  let  me 
ask,  did  Swinney  assign  the  mortgage  with 
out  any  trouble  ?" 

"O  Lord!  yes,"  was  the  reply.  "The' 
wa'n't  nothin'  else  fer  him  to  do.  I  had 
another  twist  on  him  that  I  hain't  mentioned. 
But  he  put  up  a  great  show  of  doin'  it  to 
obleege  me.  Wa'al,  I  thanked  him  an'  so  on, 
an'  when  we'd  got  through  I  ast  him  if  he 
wouldn't  step  over  to  the  '  Eagil '  an'  take 
somethin',  an'  he  looked  kind  o'  shocked  an' 
said  he  never  drinked  nothin'.  It  was  'gin 
his  princ'ples,  he  said.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!  Scat 
my-  — !  Princ'ples!"  and  John  heard  him 
chuckling  to  himself  all  the  way  out  of  the 
office. 


CHAPTER   II 

CONSIDERING  John's  relations  with  David 
Harum,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to 
think  as  well  of  him  as  possible,  and  he  had 
not  (or  thought  he  had  not)  allowed  his  mind 
to  be  influenced  by  the  disparaging  remarks 
and  insinuations  which  had  been  made  to 
him,  or  in  his  presence,  concerning  his  em 
ployer.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  form 
his  opinion  upon  his  own  experience  with  the 
man,  and  so  far  it  had  not  only  been  pleasant 
but  favorable,  and  far  from  justifying  the  half- 
jeering,  half-malicious  talk  that  had  come 
to  his  ears.  It  had  been  made  manifest  to 
him,  it  was  true,  that  David  was  capable  of  a 
sharp  bargain  in  certain  lines,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  that  it  was  more  for  the  pleasure  of 
matching  his  wits  against  another's  than  for 
any  gain  involved.  Mr.  Harum  was  an 
experienced  and  expert  horseman,  who  de 
lighted  above  all  things  in  dealing  in  and  trad 
ing  horses,  and  John  soon  discovered  that,  in 
23 


that  community  at  least,  to  get  the  best  of  a 
"hoss-trade"  by  almost  any  means  was  con 
sidered  a  venial  sin,  if  a  sin  at  all,  and  the 
standards  of  ordinary  business  probity  were 
not  expected  to  govern  those  transactions. 

David  had  said  to  him  once  when  he  sus 
pected  that  John's  ideas  might  have  sustained 
something  of  a  shock,  "A  hoss-trade  ain't  like 
anythin'  else.  A  feller  may  be  straighter  'n  a 
string  in  ev'rythin'  else,  an'  never  tell  the 
truth — that  is,  the  hull  truth — about  a  hoss. 
I  trade  hosses  with  hoss-traders.  They  all 
think  they  know  as  much  as  I  do,  an'  I  dunno 
but  what  they  do.  They  hain't  learnt  no 
diffrent  anyway,  an'  they've  had  chances 
enough.  If  a  feller  come  to  me  that  didn't 
think  he  knowed  anythin'  about  a  hoss,  an' 
wanted  to  buy  on  the  square,  he'd  git.  fur's  I 
knew,  square  treatment.  At  any  rate  I'd  tell 
him  all  't  I  knew.  But  when  one  o'  them 
smart  Alecks  comes  along  an'  cal'lates  to  do 
up  old  Dave,  why  he's  got  to  take  his 
chances,  that's  all.  An'  mind  ye,"  asserted 
David,  shaking  his  forefinger  impressively,  "it 
ain't  only  them  fellers.  I've  ben  wuss  stuck 
two  three  time  by  church  members  in  good 
standin'  than  anybody  I  ever  dealed  with. 
Take  old  Deakin  Perkins.  He's  a  terrible 

24 


feller  fer  church  bus'nes;  c'n  pray  an'  psalm- 
sing  to  beat  the  Jews,  an'  in  spiritual  matters 
c'n  read  his  title  clear  the  hull  time,  but  when 
it  comes  to  hoss-tradin'  you  got  to  git  up  very 
early  in  the  mornin'  or  he'll  skin  the  eye-teeth 
out  of  ye.  Yes,  sir!  Scat  my  -  — !  I  believe 
the  old  critter  makes  hosses!  But  the  dea- 
kin,"  added  David,  "he,  he,  he,  he!  the 
deakin  hain't  hardly  spoke  to  me  fer  some 
consid'able  time,  the  deakin  hain't.  He, 
he,  he! 

"Another  thing,"  he  went  on,  "the'  ain't 
no  gamble  like  a  hoss.  You  may  think  you 
know  him  through  an'  through,  an'  fust  thing 
you  know  he'll  be  cuttin'  up  a  lot  o'  didos 
right  out  o'  nothin'.  It  stands  to  reason  that 
sometimes  you  let  a  hoss  go  all  on  the  square 
— as  you  know  him — an'  the  feller  that  gits 
him  don't  know  how  to  hitch  him  or  treat 
him,  an'  he  acts  like  a  diff'rent  hoss,  an'  the 
feller  allows  you  swindled  him.  You  see, 
hosses  gits  used  to  places  an'  ways  to  a  cer 
tain  extent,  an'  when  they're  changed,  why 
they're  apt  to  act  diff'rent.  Hosses  don't 
know  but  dreadful  little,  really.  Talk  about 
hoss  sense — wa'al,  the'  ain't  no  such  thing." 

Thus  spoke  David  on  the  subject  of  his 
favorite  pursuit  and  pastime,  and  John  thought 
26 


then  that  he  could  understand  and  condone 
some  things  he  had  seen  and  heard,  at  which 
at  first  he  was  inclined  to  look  askance.  But 
this  matter  of  the  Widow  Cullom's  was  a 
different  thing,  and  as  he  realized  that  he  was 
expected  to  play  a  part,  though  a  small  one, 
in  it,  his  heart  sank  within  him  that  he  had  so 
far  cast  his  fortunes  upon  the  good  will  of  a 
man  who  could  plan  and  carry  out  so  heartless 
and  cruel  an  undertaking  as  that  which  had 
been  revealed  to  him  that  afternoon.  He  spent 
the  evening  in  his  room  trying  to  read,  but  the 
widow's  affairs  persistently  thrust  themselves 
upon  his  thoughts.  All  the  unpleasant  stories 
he  had  heard  of  David  came  to  his  mind,  and 
he  remembered  with  misgiving  some  things 
which  at  the  time  had  seemed  regular  and 
right  enough,  but  which  took  on  a  different 
color  in  the  light  in  which  he  found  himself 
recalling  them.  He  debated  with  himself 
whether  he  should  not  decline  to  send  Mrs. 
Cullom  the  notice  as  he  had  been  instructed, 
and  left  it  an  open  question  when  he  went  to 
bed. 

He  wakened  somewhat  earlier  than  usual 

to  find  that  the  thermometer  had  gone  up, 

and  the  barometer  down.     The  air  was  full  of 

a    steady   downpour,    half   snow,    half   rain, 

27 


about  the  most  disheartening  combination 
which  the  worst  climate  in  the  world — that 
of  central  New  York — can  furnish.  He  passed 
rather  a  busy  day  in  the  office  in  an  atmos 
phere  redolent  of  the  unsavory  odors  raised 
by  the  proximity  of  wet  boots  and  garments 
to  the  big  cylinder  stove  outside  the  counter, 
a  compound  of  stale  smells  from  kitchen  and 
stable. 

After  the  bank  closed  he  dispatched  Peleg 
Hopkins,  the  office  boy,  with  the  note  for 
Mrs.  Cullom.  He  had  abandoned  his  half- 
formed  intention  to  revolt,  but  had  made  the 
note  not  only  as  little  peremptory  as  was  com 
patible  with  a  clear  intimation  of  its  purport 
as  he  understood  it,  but  had  yielded  to  a 
natural  impulse  in  beginning  it  with  an  ex 
pression  of  personal  regret — a  blunder  which 
cost  him  no  little  chagrin  in  the  outcome. 

Peleg  Hopkins  grumbled  audibly  when  he 
was  requested  to  build  the  fires  on  Christmas 
day,  and  expressed  his  opinion  that  "if  there 
warn't  Bible  agin  workin'  on  Chris'mus,  the' 
'd  ort  ter  be";  but  when  John  opened  the 
door  of  the  bank  that  morning  he  found  the 
temperature  in  comfortable  contrast  to  the 
outside  air.  The  weather  had  changed  again, 
and  a  blinding  snowstorm,  accompanied  by  a 
28 


DAVID  HARUM,  Act  III 


buffeting  gale  from  the  northwest,  made  it 
almost  impossible  to  see  a  path  and  to  keep 
it.  In  the  central  part  of  the  town  some  ten 
tative  efforts  had  been  made  to  open  walks, 
but  these  were  apparent  only  as  slight  and 
tortuous  depressions  in  the  depths  of  snow. 
In  the  outskirts  the  unfortunate  pedestrian  had 
to  wade  to  the  knees. 

As  John  went  behind  the  counter  his  eye 
was  at  once  caught  by  a  small  parcel  lying  on 
his  desk,  of  white  note  paper,  tied  with  a  cot 
ton  string,  which  he  found  to  be  addressed, 
"Mr.  John  Lenox,  Esq.,  Present,"  and  as  he 
took  it  up  it  seemed  heavy  for  its  size. 

Opening  it,  he  found  a  tiny  stocking,  knit 
of  white  wool,  to  which  was  pinned  a  piece 
of  paper  with  the  legend,  "A  Merry  Christmas 
from  Aunt  Polly."  Out  of  the  stocking  fell  a 
packet  fastened  with  a  rubber  strap.  Inside 
were  five  ten-dollar  gold  pieces  and  a  slip 
of  paper  on  which  was  written,  ' '  A  Merry 
Christmas  from  Your  Friend  David  Harum." 
For  a  moment  John's  face  burned,  and  there 
was  a  curious  smarting  of  the  eyelids  as  he 
held  the  little  stocking  and  its  contents  in 
his  hand.  Surely  the  hand  that  had  written 
"Your  Friend"  on  that  scrap  of  paper  could 
not  be  the  hand  of  an  oppressor  of  widows 
30 


and  orphans.  "This,"  said  John  to  himself, 
"is  what  he  meant  when  he  'supposed  it 
wouldn't  take  me  long  to  find  out  what  was 
in  my  stocking.' " 

The  door  opened  and  a  blast  and  whirl  of 
wind  and  snow  rushed  in,  ushering  the  tall, 
bent  form  of  the  Widow  Cullom.  The  drive 
of  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  John  vaulted 
over  the  low  cash  counter  to  push  the  door 
shut  again.  The  poor  woman  was  white 
with  snow  from  the  front  of  her  old  worsted 
hood  to  the  bottom  of  her  ragged  skirt. 

"You  are  Mrs.  Cullom?"  said  John. 
"Wait  a  moment  till  1  brush  off  the  snow, 
and  then  come  to  the  fire  in  the  back  room. 
Mr.  Harum  will  be  in  directly,  I  expect." 

"  Be  I  much  late?"  she  asked.  "  I  made  's 
much  haste  's  I  could.  It  don't  appear  to  me 
's  if  I  ever  see  a  blusteriner  day,  'n  I  ain't  as 
strong  as  I  used  to  be.  Seemed  as  if  I  never 
would  git  here." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  John,  as  he  established 
her  before  the  glowing  grate  of  the  Franklin 
stove  in  the  back  parlor,  "not  at  all.  Mr. 
Harum  has  not  come  in  himself  yet.  Shall 
you  mind  if  1  excuse  myself  a  moment  while 
you  make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  possi- 
31 


ble  ?"  She  did  not  apparently  hear  him.  She 
was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  cold 
and  fatigue  and  nervous  excitement.  Her 
dress  was  soaked  to  the  knees,  and  as  she  sat 
down  and  put  up  her  feet  to  the  fire  John 
saw  a  bit  of  a  thin  cotton  stocking  and  her 
deplorable  shoes,  almost  in  a  state  of  pulp. 
A  snow-obliterated  path  led  from  the  back 
door  of  the  office  to  David's  house,  and  John 
snatched  his  hat  and  started  for  it  on  a  run. 
As  he  stamped  off  some  of  the  snow  on  the 
veranda  the  door  was  opened  for  him  by 
Mrs.  Bixbee.  "Lord  sakes!"she  exclaimed. 
"What  on  earth  be  you  cavortin'  'round  for 
such  a  mornin'  's  this  without  no  overcoat, 
an'  on  a  dead  run  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"Nothing  serious,"  he  answered,  "but 
I'm  in  a  great  hurry.  Old  Mrs.  Cullom  has 
walked  up  from  her  house  to  the  office,  and 
she  is  wet  through  and  almost  perished.  I 
thought  you'd  send  her  some  dry  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  an  old  shawl  or  blanket  to 
keep  her  wet  skirt  off  her  knees,  and  a  drop 
of  whisky  or  something.  She's  all  of  a 
tremble,  and  I'm  afraid  she  will  have  a  chill." 

"  Certain !  certain !  "  said  the  kind  creature, 
and  she  bustled  out  of  the  room,  returning  in 
a  minute  or  two  with  an  armful  of  comforts. 
32 


DAVID  HARUM,   Act  III 


"There's  a  pair  of  bedroom  slips  lined  with 
lamb's  wool,  an'  a  pair  of  woolen  stockin's, 
an'  a  blanket  shawl.  This  here  petticut,  't 
ain't  what  ye'd  call  bran'  new,  but  it's  warm 
and  comf'table,  an'  I  don't  believe  she's  got 
much  of  anythin'  on  'ceptin'  her  dress,  an'  I'll 
git  ye  the  whisky,  but " — here  she  looked 
deprecatingly  at  John — "it  ain't  gen'ally 
known  't  we  keep  the  stuff  in  the  house.  1 
don't  know  as  it's  right,  but  though  David 
don't  hardly  ever  touch  it  he  will  have  it  in 
the  house." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  laughing,  "you  may 
trust  my  discretion,  and  we'll  swear  Mrs. 
Cullom  to  secrecy." 

"  Wa'al,  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  join 
ing  in  the  laugh  as  she  brought  the  bottle; 
"jest  a  minute  till  I  make  a  passel  of  the 
things  to  keep  the  snow  out.  There,  now,  1 
guess  you're  fixed,  an'  you  kin  hurry  back 
'fore  she  ketches  a  chill." 

"Thanks  very  much,"  said  John  as  he 
started  away.  "I  have  something  to  say  to 
you  besides  '  Merry  Christmas, '  but  I  must 
wait  till  another  time.' 

When  John  got  back  to  the  office  David 
had  just  preceded  him. 

"Wa'al,  wa'al,"  he  was  saying,  "but  you 
34 


be  in  a  putty  consid'able  state.  Hullo,  John! 
what  you  got  there  ?  Wa'al,  you  air  the 
stuff!  Slips,  blanket-shawl,  petticut,  stock- 
in's — wa'al,  you  an'  Polly  ben  puttin'  your  ' 
heads  together,  I  guess.  What's  that? 
Whisky!  Wa'al,  scat  my  -  — !  I  didn't 
s'pose  wild  hosses  would  have  drawed  it  out 
o'  Polly  to  let  on  the'  was  any  in  the  house, 
much  less  to  fetch  it  out.  Jes'  the  thing!  Oh, 
yes  ye  are,  Mis'  Cullom — jest  a  mouthful  with 
water,"  taking  the  glass  from  John,  "jest  a 
spoonful  to  git  your  blood  a-goin',  an'  then 
Mr.  Lenox  an'  me  '11  go  into  the  front  room 
while  you  make  yourself  comf 'table." 

"  Consarn  it  all!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harum  as 
they  stood  leaning  against  the  teller's  counter, 
facing  the  street,  "I  didn't  cal'late  to  have  Mis' 
Cullom  hoof  it  up  here  the  way  she  done. 
When  I  see  what  kind  of  a  day  it  was  I  went 
out  to  the  barn  to  have  the  cutter  hitched  an' 
send  for  her,  an'  I  found  ev'rythin'  topsy 
turvy.  That  dum'd  uneasy  sorril  colt  had  got 
cast  in  the  stall,  an'  I  ben  fussin'  with  him 
ever  since.  I  clean  forgot  all  'bout  Mis'  Cul 
lom  till  jes'  now." 

"  Is  the  colt  much  injured  ?  "  John  asked. 

"Wa'al,  he  won't  trot  a  twenty  gait  in 
some  time,  I  reckon,"  replied  David.  "He's 

35 


wrenched  his  shoulder  some,  an'  mebbe 
strained  his  inside.  Don't  seem  to  take  no 
int'rist  in  his  feed,  an'  that's  a  bad  sign.  Con- 
sarn  a  hoss,  anyhow!  If  they're  wuth  any- 
thin'  they're  more  bother  'n  a  teethin'  baby. 
Alwus  some  dum  thing  ailin'  'em,  an'  I  took 
consid'able  stock  in  that  colt  too,"  he  added 
regretfully,  "an'  I  could  'a'  got  putty  near 
what  I  was  askin'  fer  him  last  week,  an'  putty 
near  what  he  was  wuth,  an'  I've  noticed  that 
most  gen'ally  alwus  when  I  let  a  good  offer 
go  like  that,  some  cussed  thing  happens  to 
the  hoss.  It  ain't  a  bad  idee,  in  the  hoss  bus'- 
nis  anyway,  to  be  willin'  to  let  the  other 
feller  make  a  dollar  once  'n  a  while." 

After  that  aphorism  they  waited  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  David  called  out 
over  his  shoulder,  "How  be  you  gettin' 
along,  Mis'  Cullom  ?  " 

"I  guess  I'm  fixed,"  she  answered,  and 
David  walked  slowly  back  into  the  parlor, 
leaving  John  in  the  front  office.  He  was 
annoyed  to  realize  that  in  the  bustle  over  Mrs. 
Cullom  and  what  followed,  he  had  forgotten 
to  acknowledge  the  Christmas  gift;  but,  hop 
ing  that  Mr.  Harum  had  been  equally  obliv 
ious,  promised  himself  to  repair  the  omission 
later  on.  He  would  have  preferred  to  go  out 
36 


and  leave  the  two  to  settle  their  affair  without 
witness  or  hearer,  but  his  employer,  who,  as 
he  had  found,  usually  had  a  reason  for  his 
actions,  had  explicitly  requested  him  to 
remain,  and  he  had  no  choice.  He  perched 
himself  upon  one  of  the  office  stools  and  com 
posed  himself  to  await  the  conclusion  of  the 
affair. 


CHAPTER   III 

MRS.  CULLOM  was  sitting  at  one  corner  of 
the  fire,  and  David  drew  a  chair  opposite  to 
her. 

"  Feelin'  all  right  now?  whisky  hain't 
made  ye  liable  to  no  disorderly  conduct,  has 
it?"  he  asked  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply,  "the 
warm  things  are  real  comfortin',  'n'  I  guess  1 
hain't  had  licker  enough  to  make  me  want  to 
throw  things.  You  got  a  kind  streak  in  ye, 
Dave  Harum,  if  you  did  send  me  this  here 
note — but  1  s'pose  ye  know  your  own  bus'- 
nis,"  she  added  with  a  sigh  of  resignation. 
"I  ben  fearin'  fer  a  good  while  't  I  couldn't 
hold  on  t'  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  don't  know  but 
what  you  might's  well  git  it  as  'Zeke  Swin- 
ney,  though  I  ben  hopin'  'gainst  hope  that 
Charley  'd  be  able  to  do  morn  'n  he  has." 

"Let's  see  the  note,"  said  David  curtly. 
"  H'm,  humph,  'regret  to  say  that  1  have 
been  instructed  by  Mr.  Harum ' — wa'al, 
39 


h'm'm,  cal'lated  to  clear  his  own  skirts  any 
way — h'm'm — '  must  be  closed  up  without 
further  delay'  (John's  eye  caught  the  little 
white  stocking  which  still  lay  on  his  desk)  — 
'  wa'al,  yes,  that's  about  what  I  told  Mr. 
Lenox  to  say  fur's  the  bus'nis  part's  concerned 
—1  might  'a'  done  my  own  regrettin'  if  I'd 
wrote  the  note  myself."  (John  said  some 
thing  to  himself.)  "  T  ain't  the  pleasantest 
thing  in  the  world  fer  ye,  I  allow,  but  then 
you  see,  bus'nis  is  bus'nis." 

John  heard  David  clear  his  throat,  and  there 
was  a  hiss  in  the  open  fire.  Mrs.  Cullom  was 
silent,  and  David  resumed: 

"You  see,  Mis'  Cullom,  it's  like  this.  I 
ben  thinkin'  of  this  matter  fer  a  good  while. 
That  place  ain't  ben  no  real  good  to  ye  sence 
the  first  year  you  signed  that  morgidge.  You 
hain't  scurcely  more'n  made  ends  meet,  let 
alone  the  int'rist,  an'  it's  ben  simply  a  question 
o'  time,  an'  who'd  git  the  prop'ty  in  the  long 
run  fer  some  years.  I  reckoned,  same  as  you 
did,  that  Charley  'd  mebbe  come  to  the  front 
—but  he  hain't  done  it,  an'  't  ain't  likely  he 
ever  will.  Charley's  a  likely  'nough  boy  some 
ways,  but  he  hain't  got  much  '  git  there  '  in  his 
make-up,  not  more'n  enough  fer  one  anyhow, 
I  reckon.  That's  about  the  size  on't,  ain't  it  ?  " 
40 


Mrs.  Cullom  murmured  a  feeble  admission 
that  she  was  "  'fraid  it  was." 

"  Wa'al,"  resumed  Mr.  Harum,  "  I  see  how 


things  was  goin',  an'  1  see  that  unless  I  played 

euchre,  'Zeke  Swinney  'd  git  that  prop'ty,  an' 

whether  I  wanted  it  myself  or  not,  I  didn't 

4' 


cal'late  he  sh'd  git  it  anyway.  He  put  a  spoke 
in  my  wheel  once,  an'  I  hain't  forgot  it.  But 
that  hain't  neither  here  nor  there.  Wa'al," 
after  a  short  pause,  "you  know  I  helped  ye 
pull  the  thing  along  on  the  chance,  as  ye  may 
say,  that  you  an'  your  son  'd  somehow  make 
a  go  on't." 

"You  ben  very  kind,  so  fur,"  said  the 
widow  faintly. 

"Don't  ye  say  that,  don't  ye  say  that," 
protested  David.  "T  wa'n't  no  kindness. 
It  was  jes'  bus'nis.  I  wa'n't  takin'  no  chances, 
an'  I  s'pose  I  might  let  the  thing  run  a  spell 
longer  if  I  c'd  see  any  use  in't.  But  the'  ain't, 
an'  so  I  ast  ye  to  come  up  this  mornin'  so  't 
we  c'd  settle  the  thing  up  without  no  fuss, 
nor  trouble,  nor  lawyer's  fees,  nor  nothin'. 
I've  got  the  papers  all  drawed,  an'  John — Mr. 
Lenox — here  to  take  the  acknowlidgments. 
You  hain't  no  objection  to  windin'  the  thing 
up  this  mornin',  have  ye?" 

"I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  do  whatever  you 
say,"  replied  the  poor  woman  in  a  tone  of 
hopeless  discouragement,  "an1  I  might  as 
well  be  killed  to  once,  as  to  die  by  inch 
pieces." 

"All  right  then,"  said  David  cheerfully, 
ignoring  her  lethal  suggestion,  "but  before 
42 


we  git  down  to  bus'nis  an'  signin'  papers,  an' 
in  order  to  set  myself  in  as  fair  a  light  's  I  can 
in  the  matter,  I  want  to  tell  ye  a  little  story." 

"I  hain't  no  objection  's  I  know  of,"  ac 
quiesced  the  widow  graciously. 

"All  right,"  said  David,  "I  won't  preach 
more  'n  about  up  to  the  sixthly — How'd  you 
feel  if  1  was  to  light  up  a  cigar  ?  I  hain't  much 
of  a  hand  at  a  yarn,  an'  if  1  git  stuck,  I  c'n 
puff  a  spell.  Thank  ye.  Wa'al,  Mis' Cullom, 
you  used  to  know  somethin'  about  my  folks. 
I  was  raised  on  Buxton  Hill.  The'  was  nine 
on  us,  an'  I  was  the  youngest  o'  the  lot.  My 
father  farmed  a  piece  of  about  forty  to  fifty 
acres,  an'  had  a  small  shop  where  he  done  odd 
times  small  jobs  of  tinkerin'  fer  the  neighbors 
when  the'  was  anythin'  to  do.  My  mother 
was  his  second,  an'  I  was  the  only  child  of 
that  marriage.  He  married  agin  when  1  was 
about  two  year  old,  an'  how  I  ever  got  raised 
's  more  'n  I  c'n  tell  ye.  My  sister  Polly  was 
'sponsible  more  'n  any  one,  1  guess,  an'  the 
only  one  o'  the  whole  lot  that  ever  gin  me  a 
decent  word.  Small  farmin'  ain't  cal'lated  to 
fetch  out  the  best  traits  of  human  nature — an' 
keep  'em  out — an'  it  seems  to  me  sometimes 
that  when  the  old  man  wa'n't  cuffin'  my  ears 
he  was  lickin'  me  with  a  rawhide  or  a  strap. 
43 


Fur  's  that  was  concerned,  all  his  boys  used 
to  ketch  it  putty  reg'lar  till  they  got  too  big. 
One  on  'em  up  an'  licked  him  one  night,  an' 
lit  out  next  day.  I  s'pose  the  old  man's  dis 
position  was  sp'iled  by  what  some  feller  said 
farmin'  was,  '  workin'  all  day,  an'  doin'  chores 
all  night,'  an'  larrupin'  me  an'  all  the  rest  on 
us  was  about  all  the  enjoyment  he  got.  My 
brothers  an'  sisters — 'ceptin'  of  Polly — was 
putty  nigh  as  bad  in  respect  of  cuffs  an'  such 
like;  an'  my  stepmarm  was,  on  the  hull,  the 
wust  of  all.  She  hadn't  no  childern  o'  her 
own,  an'  it  appeared  's  if  I  was  jes'  pizen  to 
her.  T  wa'n't  so  much  slappin'  an'  cuffin' 
with  her  as  't  was  tongue.  She  c'd  say  things 
that  'd  jes'  raise  a  blister  like  pizen  ivy.  I 
s'pose  I  was  about  as  ord'nary,  no-account- 
lookin',  red-headed,  freckled  little  cuss  as  you 
ever  see,  an'  slinkin'  in  my  manners.  The  air 
of  our  home  circle  wa'n't  cal'lated  to  raise 
heroes  in. 

"  I  got  three  four  years'  schoolin',  an'  made 
out  to  read  an'  write  an'  cipher  up  to  long 
division  Tore  I  got  through,  but  after  I  got  to 
be  six  years  old,  school  or  no  school,  I  had  to 
work  reg'lar  at  anything  1  had  strength  fer, 
an'  more  too.  Chores  before  school  an'  after 
school,  an'  a  two-mile  walk  to  git  there.  As 
44 


fur  's  clo'es  was  concerned,  any  old  thing  that 
'd  hang  together  was  good  enough  fer  me; 
but  by  the  time  the  older  boys  had  outgrowed 
their  duds,  an'  they  was  passed  on  to  me,  the' 
wa'n't  much  left  on  'em.  A  pair  of  old  cow 
hide  boots  that  leaked  in  more  snow  an'  water 
'n  they  kept  out,  an'  a  couple  pairs  of  woolen 
socks  that  was  putty  much  all  darns,  was  ex 
pected  to  see  me  through  the  winter  an'  I 
went  barefoot  f  m  the  time  the  snow  was  off 
the  ground  till  it  flew  agin  in  the  fall.  The' 
wa'n't  but  two  seasons  o'  the  year  with  me — 
them  of  chilblains  an'  stun-bruises." 

The  speaker  paused  and  stared  for  a  mo 
ment  into  the  comfortable  glow  of  the  fire, 
and  then  discovering  to  his  apparent  surprise 
that  his  cigar  had  gone  out,  lighted  it  from  a 
coal  picked  out  with  the  tongs. 

"Farmin"  's  a  hard  life,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Cullom  with  an  air  of  being  expected  to  make 
some  contribution  to  the  conversation. 

"An1  yit,  as  it  seems  to  me  as  I  look  back 
on't,"  David  resumed  pensively,  "the  wust 
on't  was  that  nobody  ever  gin  me  a  kind  word, 
'cept  Polly.  I  s'pose  I  got  kind  o'  used  to 
bein'  cold  an*  tired;  dressin'  in  a  snowdrift 
where  it  blowed  into  the  attic,  an'  goin'  out  to 
fodder  cattle 'fore  sun-up;  pickin'  up  stun  in 

45 


the  blazin'  sun,  an'  doin'  all  the  odd  jobs  my 
father  set  me  to,  an'  the  older  ones  shirked 
onto  me.  That  was  the  reg'lar  order  o' 
things;  but  I  remember  I  never  did  git  used  to 
never  pleasin'  nobody.  'Course  I  didn't  ex 
pect  nothin'  f  m  my  step-marm,  an'  the  only 
way  I  ever  knowed  I'd  done  my  stent  fur  's 
father  was  concerned,  was  that  he  didn't  say 
nothin'.  But  sometimes  the  older  one's  'd  git 
settin'  'round,  talkin'  an'  laughin',  havin'  pop 
corn  an'  apples,  an'  that,  an'  I'd  kind  o'  sidle 
up,  wantin'  to  join  'em,  an'  some  on  'em  'd 
say,  'What _>w/  doin'  here?  time  you  was  in 
bed,'  an'  give  me  a  shove  or  a  cuff.  Yes, 
ma'am,"  looking  up  at  Mrs.  Cullom,  "the 
wust  on't  was  that  I  was  kind  o'  scairt  the 
hull  time.  Once  in  a  while  Polly  'd  give  me 
a  mossel  o'  comfort,  but  Polly  wa'n't  but  little 
older  'n  me,  an'  bein'  the  youngest  girl,  was 
chored  most  to  death  herself." 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  and  though  the 
wind  still  came  in  gusty  blasts,  whirling  the 
drift  against  the  windows,  a  wintry  gleam  of 
sunshine  came  in  and  touched  the  widow's 
wrinkled  face. 

"  It's  amazin'  how  much  trouble  an'  sorrer 
the'  is  in  the  world,  an'  how  soon  it  begins," 
she  remarked,  moving  a  little  to  avoid  the  sun- 


light.  "  I  hain't  never  ben  able  to  reconcile 
how  many  good  things  the'  be,  an'  how  little 
most  on  us  gits  o'  them.  I  hain't  ben  to 
meetin'  fer  a  long  spell  'cause  I  hain't  had  no 
fit  clo'es,  but  I  remember  most  of  the  preach- 
in'  I've  set  under  either  dwelt  on  the  wrath  to 
come,  or  else  on  the  Lord's  doin'  all  things 
well,  an'  providin'.  1  hope  I  ain't  no  wick 
eder  'n  than  the  gen'ral  run,  but  it's  putty  hard 
to  hev  faith  in  the  Lord's  providin'  when  you 
hain't  got  nothin'  in  the  house  but  corn  meal, 
an'  none  too  much  o'  that." 

"That's  so,  Mis'  Cullom,  that's  so,"  af 
firmed  David.  "I  don't  blame  ye  a  mite. 
'Doubts  assail,  an'  oft  prevail,'  as  the  hymn- 
book  says,  an'  I  reckon  it's  a  sight  easier  to 
have  faith  on  meat  an'  potatoes  'n  it  is  on  corn 
meal  mush.  Wa'al,  as  I  was  sayin' — I  hope 
I  ain't  tirin*  ye  with  my  goin's  on  ?" 

"No, "said  Mrs.  Cullom,  "I'm  engaged  to 
hear  ye,  but  nobody  'd  suppose  to  see  ye  now 
that  ye  was  such  a  florn  little  critter  as  you 
make  out." 

"It's  jest  as  I'm  tellin'  ye,  an'  more  also, 
as  the  Bible  says,"  returned  David,  and  then, 
rather  more  impressively,  as  if  he  were  lead 
ing  up  to  his  conclusion,  "it  come  along  to  a 
time  when  I  was  'twixt  thirteen  an'  fourteen. 


The'  was  a  cirkis  billed  to  show  down  here  in 
Homeville,  an'  ev'ry  barn  an'  shed  fer  miles 
around  had  pictures  stuck  on  to  'em  of  el'- 
phants,  an'  rhinoceroses,  an'  ev'ry  animul  that 
went  into  the  ark;  an'  girls  ridin'  bareback  an' 
jumpin'  through  hoops,  an'  fellers  ridin'  bare 
back  an'  turnin'  summersets,  an'  doin'  turn 
overs  on  swings;  an'  clowns  gettin'  hoss- 
whipped,  an'  ev'ry  kind  of  a  thing  that  could 
be  pictered  out ;  an'  how  the'  was  to  be  a 
grand  percession  at  ten  o'clock,  'ith  golden 
chariots,  an'  scripteral  allegories,  an'  the  hull 
bus'nis;  an'  the  gran'  performance  at  two 
o'clock;  admission  twenty-five  cents,  children 
under  twelve,  at  cetery,  an'  so  forth.  Wa'al, 
I  hadn't  no  more  idee  o'  goin'  to  that  cirkis  'n 
I  had  o'  flyin'  to  the  moon,  but  the  night 
before  the  show  somethin'  waked  me  'bout 
twelve  o'clock.  I  don't  know  how  't  was. 
I'd  ben  helpin'  mend  fence  all  day,  an'  gen'- 
ally  I  never  knowed  nothin'  after  my  head 
struck  the  bed  till  mornin'.  But  that  night, 
anyhow,  somethin'  waked  me,  an'  I  went  an' 
looked  out  the  windo',  an'  there  was  the  hull 
thing  goin'  by  the  house.  The'  was  more  or 
less  moon,  an'  I  see  the  el'phant,  an'  the  big 
wagins — the  drivers  kind  o'  noddin'  over  the 
dashboards — an'  the  chariots  with  canvas  cov- 
49 


ers — I  don't  know  how  many  of  'em — an'  the 
cages  of  the  tigers  an'  lions,  an'  all.  Wa'al, 
I  got  up  the  next  mornin'  at  sun-up  an'  done 
my  chores ;  an'  after  breakfust  I  set  off  fer  the 
ten-acre  lot  where  I  was  mendin'  fence.  The 
ten-acre  was  the  farthest  off  of  any,  Home- 
ville  way,  an'  I  had  my  dinner  in  a  tin  pail  so't 
I  needn't  lose  no  time  goin'  home  at  noon, 
an',  as  luck  would  have  it,  the'  wa'n't  nobody 
with  me  that  mornin'.  Wa'al,  I  got  down 
to  the  lot  an'  set  to  work;  but  somehow  1 
couldn't  git  that  show  out  o'  my  head  nohow. 
As  I  said,  I  hadn't  no  more  notion  of  goin'  to 
that  cirkis  'n  I  had  of  kingdom  come.  I'd 
never  had  two  shillin'  of  my  own  in  my  hull 
life.  But  the  more  I  thought  on't  the  uneasier 
I  got.  Somethin'  seemed  pullin'  an'  haulin'  at 
me,  an'  fin'ly  I  gin  in.  I  allowed  I'd  see  that 
percession  anyway  if  it  took  a  leg,  an'  mebbe 
I  c'd  git  back  'ithout  nobody  missin'  nre.  T 
any  rate,  I'd  take  the  chances  of  a  lickin'  jest 
once — fer  that's  what  it  meant — an'  I  up  an' 
put  fer  the  village  lickity-cut.  I  done  them 
four  mile  lively,  I  c'n  tell  ye,  an'  the  stun- 
bruises  never  hurt  me  once. 

"When    I    got    down   to   the   village   it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  hull  population  of  Free- 
land  County  was  there.     I'd  never  seen   so 
50 


many  folks  together  in  my  life,  an'  fer  a  spell 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  ev'rybody  was  a-lookin' 
at  me  an'  sayin',  '  That's  old  Harum's  boy 
Dave,  playin'  hookey,'  an'  I  sneaked  'round 
dreadin'  somebody  'd  give  me  away;  but  I 
fin'ly  found  that  nobody  wa'n't  payin'  any 
attention  to  me — they  was  there  to  see  the 
show,  an'  one  red-headed  boy  more  or  less 
wa'n't  no  pertic'ler  account.  Wa'al,  putty 
soon  the  percession  hove  in  sight,  an'  the'  was 
a  reg'lar  stampede  among  the  boys,  an'  when 
it  got  by,  I  run  an'  ketched  up  with  it  agin, 
an'  walked  alongside  the  el'phant,  tin  pail  an' 
all,  till  they  fetched  up  inside  the  tent.  Then 
I  went  off  to  one  side — it  must  'a'  ben  about 
'leven  or  half-past,  an'  eat  my  dinner — I  had  a 
devourin'  appetite — an'  thought  I'd  jes'  walk 
round  a  spell,  an'  then  light  out  fer  home. 
But  the'  was  so  many  things  to  see  an'  hear — 
all  the  side-show  pictures  of  Fat  Women,  an' 
Livin'  Skelitons;  an'  Wild  Women  of  Mady- 
gasker,  an'  Wild  Men  of  Borneo;  an'  snakes 
windin'  round  women's  necks;  hand-orgins; 
fellers  that  played  the  'cordion,  an'  mouth- 
pipes,  an'  drum  an'  cymbals  all  to  once,  an' 
such  like — that  I  fergot  all  about  the  time  an' 
the  ten-acre  lot,  an'  the  stun  fence,  an'  fust  I 
knowed  the  folks  was  makin'  fer  the  ticket 
5» 


wagin,  an'  the  band  begun  to  play  inside  the 
tent.  Be  I  taxin'  your  patience  over  the 
limit?"  said  David,  breaking  off  in  his  story 
and  addressing  Mrs.  Cullom  more  directly. 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  she  replied;  "I  was 
jes'  thinkin'  of  a  circus  1  went  to  once, "she 
'added  with  an  audible  sigh. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  a  last  farewell 
of  the  end  of  his  cigar,  which  he  threw  into 
the  grate,  "  mebbe  what's  comin'  'ill  int'rist 
ye  more  'n  the  rest  on't  has.  I  was  standin' 
gawpin'  'round,  list'nin'  to  the  band  an' 
watchin'  the  folks  git  their  tickets,  when  all  of 
a  suddin  I  felt  a  twitch  at  my  hair — it  had  a 
way  of  workin'  out  of  the  holes  in  my  old 
chip  straw  hat — an'  somebody  says  to  me, 
'Wa'al,  sonny,  what  you  thinkin'  of?'  he 
says.  I  looked  up,  an'  who  do  you  s'pose  it 
was  ?  It  was  Billy  P.  Cullom !  I  knowed 
who  he  was,  fer  I'd  seen  him  before,  but  of 
course  he  didn't  know  me.  Yes,  ma'am,  it 
was  Billy  P.,  an'  wa'n't  he  rigged  out  to 
kill!" 

The  speaker  paused  and  looked  into  the 
fire,  smiling.  The  woman  started  forward 
facing  him,  and  clasping  her  hands,  cried, 
"  My  husband!  What  'd  he  have  on  ?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  slowly  and  reminis- 
52 


cently,  "near  's  I  c'n  remember,  he  had  on  a 
blue  broadcloth  claw-hammer  coat  with  flat 
gilt  buttons,  an'  a  double-breasted  plaid  velvet 
vest,  an'  pearl-gray  pants,  strapped  down  over 
his  boots,  which  was  of  shiny  leather,  an'  a 
high  pointed  collar  an'  blue  stock  with  a  pin  in 
it  (I  remember  wonderin'  if  it  c'd  be  real  gold), 
an'  a  yeller-white  plug  beaver  hat." 

At  the  description  of  each  article  of  attire 
Mrs.  Cullom  nodded  her  head,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  David's  face,  and  as  he  concluded  she 
broke  out  breathlessly,  "Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes! 
David,  he  wore  them  very  same  clo'es,  an'  he 
took  me  to  that  very  same  show  that  very 
same  night!"  There  was  in  her  face  a  look 
almost  of  awe,  as  if  a  sight  of  her  long-buried 
past  youth  had  been  shown  to  her  from  a 
coffin. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  it 
was  the  widow  who  broke  the  silence.  As 
David  had  conjectured,  she  was  interested  at 
last,  and  sat  leaning  forward  with  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "ain't  ye  goin' 
on  ?  What  did  he  say  to  ye  ?  " 

"Cert'nly,  cert'nly,"  responded  David. 
"I'll  tell  ye  near  's  I  c'n  remember,  an'  I  c'n 
remember  putty  near.  As  I  told  ye.  I  felt  a 
5  53 


twitch  at  my  hair,  an'  he  said,  '  What  be  you 
thinkin'  about,  sonny?'  I  looked  up  at  him, 
an'  looked  away  quick.  'I  dunno, '  I  says, 
diggin'  my  big  toe  into  the  dust;  an'  then,  1 
dunno  how  I  got  the  spunk  to,  for  I  was  shyer 
'n  a  rat,  '  Guess  I  was  thinkin'  'bout  mendin' 
that  fence  up  in  the  ten-acre  lot  's  much  's 
anythin','  I  says. 

"  '  Ain't  you  goin'  to  the  cirkis  ?'  he  says. 

"  '  I  hain't  got  no  money  to  go  to  cirkises,' 
I  says,  rubbin'  the  dusty  toes  o'  one  foot  over 
t'  other,  'nor  nothin'  else,'  I  says. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  he  says,  'why  don't  you  crawl 
under  the  canvas  ? ' 

"That  kind  o'  riled  me,  shy  's  I  was.  'I 
don't  crawl  under  no  canvases,'  1  says.  'If  I 
can't  go  in  same  's  other  folks,  I'll  stay  out,'  I 
says,  lookin'  square  at  him  fer  the  fust  time. 
He  wa'n't  exac'ly  smilin',  but  the'  was  a  look 
in  his  eyes  that  was  the  next  thing  to  it." 

"  Lordy  me!  "  sighed  Mrs.  Cullom,  as  if  to 
herself.  "How  well  I  can  remember  that 
look;  jest  as  if  he  was  laughin'  at  ye,  an' 
wa'n't  laughin'  at  ye,  an'  his  arm  around  your 
neck! " 

David  nodded  in  reminiscent  sympathy, 
and  rubbed  his  bald  poll  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

54 


"Wa'al,"  interjected  the  widow. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  resuming,  "he  says 
to  me,  'Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  cirkis?' 
an'  with  that  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  did  want 
to  go  to  that  cirkis  more'n  anythin'  I  ever 
wanted  to  before — nor  since,  it  seems  to  me. 
But  I  tell  ye  the  truth,  I  was  so  far  f  m  expect- 
in'  to  go  't  I  really  hadn't  knowed  I  wanted 
to.  I  looked  at  him,  an'  then  down  agin,  an' 
began  tenderin'  up  a  stun-bruise  on  one  heel 
agin  the  other  instep,  an'  all  1  says  was,  bein' 
so  dum'd  shy,  '  I  dunno,'  I  says.  But  I  guess 
he  seen  in  my  face  what  my  feelin's  was,  fer 
he  kind  o'  laughed  an'  pulled  out  half-a-dollar- 
an'  says:  '  D'  you  think  you  could  git  a  cou 
ple  o'  tickits  in  that  crowd  ?  If  you  kin,  I 
think  I'll  go  myself,  but  1  don't  want  to  git 
my  boots  all  dust,'  he  says.  I  allowed  I  c'd 
try ;  an'  I  guess  them  bare  feet  o'  mine  tore  up 
the  dust  some  gettin'  over  to  the  wagin. 
Wa'al,  I  had  another  scare  gettin'  the  tickits, 
fer  fear  some  one  that  knowed  me  'd  see  me 
with  a  half-a-dollar,  an'  think  I  must  'a'  stole  the 
money.  But  I  got  'em  an'  carried  'em  back  to 
him,  an'  he  took  'em  an'  put  'em  in  his  vest 
pocket,  an'  handed  me  a  ten-cent  piece,  an' 
says,  '  Mebbe  you'll  want  somethin'  in  the 
way  of  refreshments  fer  yourself  an'  mebbe 
55 


the  el'phant,'  he  says,  an'  walked  off  toward 
the  tent;  an'  I  stood  stun  still,  lookin'  after 
him.  He  got  off  about  a  rod  or  so  an' 
stopped  an'  looked  back.  'Ain't  you  corn- 
in'  ?'  he  says. 

"  '  Be  I  goin'  with  jw/  ?'  1  says. 

' '  '  Why  not  ? '  he  says,  '  'nless  you'd  ruther 
go  alone,'  an'  he  put  his  finger  an'  thumb 
into  his  vest  pocket.  Wa'al,  ma'am,  I  looked 
at  him  a  minute,  with  his  shiny  hat  an'  boots, 
an'  fine  clo'es,  an'  gold  pin,  an'  thought  of  my 
ragged  ole  shirt,  an'  cotton  pants,  an1  ole  chip 
hat  with  the  brim  most  gone,  an'  my  tin  pail 
an'  all.  'I  ain't  fit  to,'  I  says,  ready  to  cry — 
an' — wa'al,  he  jes'  laughed,  an'  says,  '  Non 
sense,'  he  says,  '  come  along.  A  man  needn't 
be  ashamed  of  his  workin'  clo'es,'  he  says,  an' 
I'm  dum'd  if  he  didn't  take  holt  of  my  hand, 
an'  in  we  went  that  way  together." 

"  How  like  him  that  was!  "  said  the  widow 
softly. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  yes,  ma'am,  I  reckon  it 
was,"  said  David,  nodding. 

"Wa'al,"  he  went  on  after  a  little  pause, 
"I  was  ready  to  sink  into  the  ground  with 
shyniss  at  fust,  but  that  wore  off  some  after  a 
little,  an'  we  two  seen  the  hull  show,  I  tell  ye. 
We  walked  'round  the  cages,  an'  we  fed  the 
56 


el'phant — that  is,  he  bought  the  stuff  an'  I 
fed  him.  I  'member — he,  he,  he! — 't  he  says, 
'mind  you  git  the  right  end,'  he  says,  an' 
then  we  got  a  couple  o'  seats,  an'  the  doin's 
begun." 


57 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  widow  was  looking  at  David  with 
shining  eyes  and  devouring  his  words.  All 
the  years  of  trouble  and  sorrow  and  privation 
were  wiped  out,  and  she  was  back  in  the  days 
of  her  girlhood.  Ah,  yes!  how  well  she  re 
membered  him  as  he  looked  that  very  day — so 
handsome,  so  splendidly  dressed,  so  debonair; 
and  how  proud  she  had  been  to  sit  by  his  side 
that  night,  observed  and  envied  of  all  the  vil 
lage  girls. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  go  over  the  hull  show," 
proceeded  David,  "well  's  I  remember  it. 
The'  didn  t  nothin'  git  away  from  me  that 
afternoon,  an'  once  I  come  near  to  stickin'  a 
piece  o'  gingerbread  into  my  ear  'stid  o'  my 
mouth.  1  had  my  ten-cent  piece  that  Billy  P. 
give  me,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me  buy  nothin'; 
an'  when  the  gingerbread  man  come  along  he 
says,  '  Air  ye  hungry,  Dave  ?  (I'd  told  him  my 
name),  air  ye  hungry  ?'  Wa'al,  I  was  a  grow- 
in'  boy,  an'  1  was  hungry  putty  much  all  the 
58 


time.  He  bought  two  big  squares  an'  gin  me 
one,  an'  when  I'd  swallered  it,  he  says,  '  Guess 
you  better  tackle  this  one  too,'  he  says,  '  I've 
dined.'  I  didn't  exac'ly  know  what  'dined' 
meant,  but — he,  he,  he,  he! — I  tackled  it," 
and  David  smacked  his  lips  in  memory. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "  we  done  the  hull 
programmy  —  gingerbread,  lemonade  — pink 
lemonade,  an'  he  took  some  o'  that — pop  corn, 
peanuts,  pep'mint  candy,  cin'mun  candy- 
scat  my !  an'  he  payin'  fer  ev'rythin' — I 

thought  he  was  jes'  made  o'  money!  An'  I 
remember  how  we  talked  about  all  the  doin's; 
the  ridin',  an'  jumpin',  an'  summersettin',  an' 
all — fer  he'd  got  all  the  shyniss  out  of  me  for 
the  time — an'  once  I  looked  up  at  him,  an'  he 
looked  down  at  me  with  that  curious  look  in 
his  eyes  an'  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
Wa'al,  now,  I  tell  ye,  I  had  a  queer,  crinkly 
feelin'  go  up  an'  down  my  back,  an'  I  like  to 
up  an'  cried." 

"  Dave,"  said  the  widow,  "I  kin  see  you 
two  as  if  you  was  settin'  there  front  of  me. 
He  was  alwus  like  that.  Oh,  my!  Oh,  my! 
David,"  she  added  solemnly,  while  two  tears 
rolled  slowly  down  her  wrinkled  face,  "we 
lived  together,  husban'  an'  wife,  fer  seven 
year,  an'  he  never  give  me  a  cross  word." 
59 


"I  don't  doubt  it  a  mossel,"  said  David 
simply,  leaning  over  and  poking  the  fire, 
which  operation  kept  his  face  out  of  her  sight 
and  was  prolonged  rather  unduly.  Finally  he 
straightened  up  and,  blowing  his  nose  as  it 
were  a  trumpet,  said  : 

"  Wa'al,  the  cirkis  fin'ly  come  to  an  end, 
an'  the  crowd  hustled  to  git  out  's  if  they  was 
afraid  the  tent  'd  come  down  on  'ern.  I  got 
kind  o'  mixed  up  in  'em,  an'  somebody  tried 
to  git  my  tin  pail,  or  I  thought  he  did,  an'  the 
upshot  was  that  I  lost  sight  o'  Billy  P.,  an' 
couldn't  make  out  to  ketch  a  glimpse  of  him 
nowhere.  An'  then  I  kind  o'  come  down  to 
earth,  kerchug!  It  was  five  o'clock,  an'  I  had 
better  'n  four  mile  to  walk — mostly  up  hill — 
an'  if  I  knowed  anything  'bout  the  old  man, 
an'  I  thought  I  did,  I  had  the  all-firedist  lickin' 
ahead  of  me  't  I'd  ever  got,  an'  that  was  sayin' 
a  good  deal.  But,  boy  's  I  was,  I  had  grit 
enough  to  allow  't  was  wuth  it,  an'  off  I 
put." 

"Did  he  lick  ye  much?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Cullom  anxiously. 

"Wa'al,"   replied    David,    "he   done    his 

best.     He  was  layin'  fer  me  when  I  struck  the 

front  gate — I  knowed  it  wa'n't  no  use  to  try 

the  back  door,  an'  he  took  me  by  the  ear — 

60 


most  pulled  it  off— an'  marched  me  off  to  the 
barn  shed  without  a  word.  I  never  see  him 
so  mad.  Seemed  like  he  couldn't  speak  fer  a 
while,  but  fin'ly  he  says,  '  Where  you  ben  all 
day  ?' 

"  'Down  t'  the  village,'  I  says. 

"  '  What  you  ben  up  to  down  there  ?'  he 
says. 

"'Went  to  the  cirkis,'  I  says,  thinkin'  I 
might  's  well  make  a  clean  breast  on't. 

"'Where  'd  you  git  the  money?'  he 
says. 

"  'Mr.  Cullom  took  me,'  I  says. 

' ' '  You  lie, '  he  says.  '  You  stole  the  money 
somewheres,  an'  I'll  trounce  it  out  of  ye,  if  1 
kill  ye,'  he  says. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  twisting  his  shoul 
ders  in  recollection,  "  I  won't  harrer  up  your 
feelin's.  'S  I  told  you,  he  done  his  best.  I 
was  willin'  to  quit  long  'fore  he  was.  Fact 
was,  he  overdone  it  a  little,  an'  he  had  to 
throw  water  in  my  face  'fore  he  got  through ; 
an'  he  done  that  as  thorough  as  the  other 
thing.  I  was  somethin'  like  a  chickin  jest  out 
o'  the  cistern.  I  crawled  off  to  bed  the  best  I 
could,  but  I  didn't  lay  on  my  back  fer  a  good 
spell,  I  c'n  tell  ye." 

"You  poor  little  critter,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 

61 


Cullom  sympathetically.  "You  poor  little 
critter! " 

"  T  was  more'n  wuth  it,  Mis'  Cullom," 
said  David  emphatically.  ''I'd  had  the  most 
enjoy' ble  day,  I  might  say  the  only  enjoy 'ble 
day,  't  I'd  ever  had  in  my  hull  life,  an'  I  hain't 
never  fergot  it.  I  got  over  the  lickin'  in 
course  of  time,  but  I've  ben  enjoyin'  that  cir- 
kis  fer  forty  year.  The'  wa'n't  but  one  thing 
to  hender,  an'  that's  this,  that  I  hain't  never 
ben  able  to  remember — an'  to  this  day  I  lay 
awake  nights  tryin'  to — that  I  said  'Thank 
ye  '  to  Billy  P.,  an'  I  never  seen  him  after  that 
day." 

"  How's  that  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"Wa'al,"  was  the  reply,  "that  day  was 
the  turnin'  point  with  me.  The  next  night  1 
lit  out  with  what  duds  I  c'd  git  together,  an' 
as  much  grub  's  I  could  pack  in  that  tin  pail ; 
an'  the  next  time  I  see  the  old  house  on  Bux- 
ton  Hill  the'  hadn't  ben  no  Harums  in  it  fer 
years." 

Here  David  rose  from  his  chair,  yawned 
and  stretched  himself,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  fire.  The  widow  looked  up  anxiously 
into  his  face.  "Is  that  all?"  she  asked  after 
a  while. 

"  Wa'al,  it  is  an'  it  ain't.  I've  got  through 
62 


yarnin'  about  Dave  Harum  at  any  rate,  an' 
mebbe  we'd  better  have  a  little  confab  on  your 
matters,  seein'  't  I've  got  you  'way  up  here 
such  a  mornin'  's  this.  I  gen'ally  do  bus'nis 
fust  an'  talkin'  afterward,"  he  added,  "but  1 
kind  o'  got  to  goin'  an'  kept  on  this  time." 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat  and  took  out  three  papers,  which  he 
shuffled  in  review  as  if  to  verify  their  identity, 
and  then  held  them  in  one  hand,  tapping  them 
softly  upon  the  palm  of  the  other,  as  if  at  a 
loss  how  to  begin.  The  widow  sat  with  her 
eyes  fastened  upon  the  papers,  trembling  with 
nervous  apprehension.  Presently  he  broke  the 
silence. 

"About  this  here  morgige  o'  your'n,"  he 
said.  "  I  sent  ye  word  that  I  wanted  to  close 
the  matter  up,  an'  seein'  't  you're  here  an' 
come  fer  that  purpose,  I  guess  we'd  better 
make  a  job  on't.  The'  ain't  no  time  like  the 
present,  as  the  sayin'  is." 

"  I  s'pose  it'll  hev  to  be  as  you  say,"  said 
the  widow  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"  Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David  solemnly,  "you 
know,  an'  I  know,  that  I've  got  the  repita- 
tion  of  bein'  a  hard,  graspin',  schemin'  man. 
Mebbe  I  be.  Mebbe  I've  ben  hard  done  by  all 
my  hull  life,  an'  have  had  to  be ;  an'  mebbe, 
63 


now  't  I've  got  ahead  some,  it's  got  to  be  sec 
ond  nature,  an'  I  can't  seem  to  help  it.  '  Bus'- 
nis  is  bus'nis  '  ain't  part  of  the  golden  rule,  I 
allow,  but  the  way  it  gen'ally  runs,  fur  's  I've 
found  out,  is,  '  Do  unto  the  other  feller  the 
way  he'd  like  to  do  unto  you,  an'  do  it  fust.' 
But,  if  you  want  to  keep  this  thing  a-runnin1 
as  it's  goin'  on  now  fer  a  spell  longer,  say  one 
year,  or  two,  or  even  three,  you  may,  only  I've 
got  somethin'  to  say  to  ye  'fore  ye  elect.'' 

"  Wa'al,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "  I  expect 
it  'd  only  be  pilin'  up  wrath  agin  the  day  o' 
wrath.  I  can't  pay  the  int'rist  now  without 
starvin',  an'  I  hain't  got  no  one  to  bid  in  the 
prop'ty  fer  me  if  it  was  to  be  sold." 

"Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David,  "I  said  I'd 
got  somethin'  more  to  tell  ye,  an'  if,  when  I 
git  through,  you  don't  think  I've  treated  you 
right,  includin'  this  mornin's  confab,  I  hope 
you'll  fergive  me.  It's  this,  an'  I'm  the  only 
person  livin'  that  's  knowin'  to  it,  an'  in  fact  I 
may  say  that  I'm  the  only  person  that  ever 
was  really  knowin'  to  it.  It  was  before  you 
was  married,  an'  I'm  sure  he  never  told  ye, 
fer  I  don't  doubt  he  fergot  all  about  it,  but 
your  husband,  Billy  P.  Cullom,  that  was,  made 
a  small  investment  once  on  a  time,  yes,  ma'am, 
he  did,  an'  in  his  kind  of  careless  way  it  jes' 
64 


slipped  his  mind.  The  afnount  of  cap'tal  he 
put  in  wa'n't  large,  but  the  rate  of  int'rist  was 
uncommon  high.  Now,  he  never  drawed  no 
dividends  on't,  an'  they've  ben  'cumulatin' 
fer  forty  year,  more  or  less,  at  compound 
int'rist." 

The  widow  started  forward,  as  if  to  rise 
from  her  seat.  David  put  his  hand  out  gently 
and  said,  "Jest  a  minute,  Mis'  Cullom,  jest  a 
minute,  till  I  git  through.  Part  o'  that  cap' 
tal,"  he  resumed,  "consistin"  of  a  quarter  an' 
some  odd  cents,  was  invested  in  the  cirkis 
bus'nis,  an'  the  rest  on't — the  cap'tal,  an'  all 
the  cash  cap'tal  that  I  started  in  bus'nis  with 
— was  the  ten  cents  your  husband  give  me 
that  day,  an'  here,"  said  David,  striking  the 
papers  in  his  left  hand  with  the  back  of  his 
right,  "  here  is  the  dividends!  This  here  sec 
ond  morgige,  not  bein'  on  record,  may  jest 
as  well  go  onto  the  fire — it's  gettin'  low — an' 
here's  a  satisfaction  piece  which  I'm  goin'  to 
execute  now,  that'll  clear  the  thousan'  dollar 
one.  Come  in  here,  John,"  he  called  out. 

The  widow  stared  at  David  for  a  moment 
speechless,  but  as  the  significance  of  his  words 
dawned  upon  her,  the  blood  flushed  darkly  in 
her  face.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  throw 
ing  up  her  arms,  cried  out:  "My  Lord!  My 

66 


Lord !  Dave !  Dave  Harum !  Is  it  true  ? — 
tell  me  it's  true!  You  ain't  foolin'  me,  air  ye, 
Dave  ?  You  wouldn't  fool  a  poor  old  woman 
that  never  done  ye  no  harm,  nor  said  a  mean 
word  agin  ye,  would  ye  ?  Is  it  true  ?  an'  is 
my  place  clear  ?  an'  I  don't  owe  nobody  any- 
thin' — I  mean,  no  money  ?  Tell  it  agin.  Oh, 
tell  it  agin!  Oh,  Dave!  it's  too  good  to  be 
true!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh,  my!  an'  here  I  be  cry- 
in'  like  a  great  baby,  an',  an'" — fumbling  in 
her  pocket — "  I  do  believe  1  hain't  got  no 
hank'chif. — Oh,  thank  ye,"  to  John;  "  I'll  do  it 
up  an'  send  it  back  to-morrer. — Oh,  what 
made  ye  do  it,  Dave  ?  " 

"Set  right  down  an'  take  it  easy.  Mis' 
Cullom,"  said  David  soothingly,  putting  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders  and  gently  pushing 
her  back  into  her  chair.  "  Set  right  down  an' 
take  it  easy. — Yes,"  to  John,  "I  acknowl 
edge  that  I  signed  that." 

He  turned  to  the  widow,  who  sat  wiping 
her  eyes  with  John's  handkerchief. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "it's  as  true  as 
anythin'  kin  be.  I  wouldn't  no  more  fool  ye, 
ye  know  I  wouldn't,  don't  ye  ?  than  I'd — jerk 
a  hoss,"  he  asseverated.  "  Your  place  is  clear 
now,  an'  by  this  time  to-morro'  the'  won't 
be  the  scratch  of  a  pen  agin  it.  I'll  send  the 
67 


satisfaction  over  fer  record  fust  thing  in  the 
mornin'." 

"But,  Dave,"  protested  the  widow,  "I 
s'pose  ye  know  what  you're  doin' ?" 

"Yes,"  he  interposed,  "I  cal'late  I  do, 
putty  near.  You  ast  me  why  I  done  it,  an'  I'll 
tell  ye  if  ye  want  to  know.  I'm  payin'  off  an 
old  score,  an'  gettin'  off  cheap,  too.  That's 
what  I'm  doin' !  I  thought  I'd  hinted  up  to  it 
putty  plain,  seein'  't  I've  talked  till  my  jaws 
ache;  but  I'll  sum  it  up  to  ye  if  ye  like." 

He  stood  with  his  feet  aggressively  wide 
apart,  one  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and 
holding  in  the  other  the  "morgige,"  which 
he  waved  from  time  to  time  in  emphasis. 

"You  c'n  estimate,  I  reckon,"  he  began, 
"what  kind  of  a  bringin'-up  I  had,  an'  what 
a  poor,  mis'able,  God-fersaken,  scairt-to-death 
little  forlorn  critter  I  was;  put  upon,  an' 
snubbed,  an'  jawed  at  till  I'd  come  to  believe 
myself — what  was  rubbed  into  me  the  hull 
time — that  I  was  the  most  all-'round  no- 
account  animul  that  was  ever  made  out  o' 
dust,  an'  wa'n't  ever  likely  to  be  no  diff  rent. 
Lookin'  back,  it  seems  to  me  that — exceptin' 
of  Polly — I  never  had  a  kind  word  said  to  me, 
nor  a  day's  fun.  Your  husband,  Billy  P.  Cul- 
lom,  was  the  fust  man  that  ever  treated  me 

68 


human  up  to  that  time.  He  give  me  the  only 
enjoy'ble  time  't  I'd  ever  had,  an'  I  don't  know 
't  anythin'  's  ever  equaled  it  since.  He  spent 
money  on  me,  an'  he  give  me  money  to  spend 
— that  had  never  had  a  cent  to  call  my  own — 
an',  Mis'  Cullom,  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  an' 
he  talked  to  me,  an'  he  gin  me  the  fust  notion 
't  I'd  ever  had  that  mebbe  I  wa'n't  only  the 
scum  o'  the  earth,  as  I'd  ben  teached  to  be 
lieve.  I  told  ye  that  that  day  was  the  turnin' 
point  of  my  life.  Wa'al,  it  wa'n't  the  lickin'  I 
got,  though  that  had  somethin'  to  do  with  it, 
but  I'd  never  have  had  the  spunk  to  run  away 
's  I  did  if  it  hadn't  ben  for  the  heartenin'  Billy 
P.  gin  me,  an'  never  knowed  it,  an'  never 
knowed  it,"  he  repeated  mournfully.  "I 
alwus  allowed  to  pay  some  o'  that  debt  back 
to  him,  but  seein'  's  I  can't  do  that,  Mis'  Cul 
lom,  I'm  glad  an'  thankful  to  pay  it  to  his 
widdo'." 

"Mebbe  he  knows,  Dave,"  said  Mrs.  Cul 
lom  softly. 

"  Mebbe  he  does,"  assented  David  in  a  low 
voice. 

Neither  spoke  for  a   time,   and  then  the 

widow  said:    "David,  I  can't  thank  ye  's  I 

ought  ter — I  don't  know  how — but  I'll  pray 

fer  ye  night  an'  mornin'  's  long  's  I  got  breath. 

70 


An',  Dave,"  she  added  humbly,  "I  want  to 
take  back  what  I  said  about  the  Lord's  pro- 
vidin'." 

She  sat  a  moment,  lost  in  her  thoughts, 
and  then  exclaimed,  "Oh,  it  don't  seem  's  if  I 
c'd  wail  to  write  to  Charley !  " 

"I've  wrote  to  Charley,"  said  David,  "an" 
told  him  to  sell  out  there  an'  come  home,  an' 
to  draw  on  me  fer  any  balance  he  needed  to 
move  him.  I've  got  somethin'  in  my  eye 
that'll  be  easier  an'  better  payin'  than  fightin' 
grasshoppers  an'  drought  in  Kansas." 

"Dave  Harum!"  cried  the  widow,  rising 
to  her  feet,  "you  ought  to  'a'  ben  a  king!  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "  I  don't 
know  much  about  the  kingin'  bus'nis,  but  I 
guess  a  cloth  cap  'n'  a  hoss  whip  's  more  'n 
my  line  than  a  crown  an'  scepter.  An'  now," 
he  added,  "  's  we've  got  through  'th  our  bus' 
nis,  s'pose  you  step  over  to  the  house  an' 
see  Polly.  She's  expectin'  ye  to  dinner.  Oh, 
yes,"  replying  to  the  look  of  deprecation  in 
her  face  as  she  viewed  her  shabby  frock,  "you 
an'  Polly  c'n  prink  up  some  if  you  want  to, 
but  we  can't  take  '  No '  fer  an  answer  Chris'- 
must  day,  clo'es  or  no  clo'es." 

"  I'd  really  like  ter,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"All   right  then,"  said   David   cheerfully. 
7« 


"The  path  is  swep'  by  this  time,  I  guess,  an' 
I'll  see  ye  later.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "the's  somethin'  I  fergot.  I  want 
to  make  you  a  proposition,  ruther  an  onusual 
one,  but  seein'  ev'rythin'  is  as  't  is,  perhaps 
you'll  consider  it." 

"Dave,"  declared  the  widow,  "  if  I  could, 
an'  you  ast  for  it,  I'd  give  ye  anythin'  on  the 
face  o'  this  mortal  globe !  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  nodding  and  smil 
ing,  "I  thought  that  mebbe,  long  's  you  got 
the  int'rist  of  that  investment  we  ben  talkin' 
about,  you'd  let  me  keep  what's  left  of  the 
princ'pal.  Would  ye  like  to  see  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cullom  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled 
expression  without  replying. 

David  took  from  his  pocket  a  large  wallet, 
secured  by  a  strap,  and,  opening  it,  extracted 
something  enveloped  in  a  much  faded  brown 
paper.  Unfolding  this,  he  displayed  upon  his 
broad  fat  palm  an  old  silver  dime  black  with 
age. 

"There's  the  cap'tal,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

"WHY,  Mis'  Cullom,  I'm  real  glad  to  see 
ye.  Come  right  in,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  as 
she  drew  the  widow  into  the  "wing  settin' 
room,"  and  proceeded  to  relieve  her  of  her 
wraps  and  her  bundle.  "Set  right  here 
by  the  fire  while  I  take  these  things  of 
your'n  into  the  kitchen  to  dry  'em  out.  I'll 
be  right  back " ;  and  she  bustled  out  of  the 
room.  When  she  came  back  Mrs.  Cullom 
was  sitting  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and 
there  was  in  her  eyes  an  expression  of  smiling 
peace  that  was  good  to  see. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  drew  up  a  chair,  and  seating 
herself,  said:  "  Wa'al,  I  don't  know  when 
I've  seen  ye  to  git  a  chance  to  speak  to  ye,  an' 
I  was  real  pleased  when  David  said  you  was 
goin'  to  be  here  to  dinner.  An'  my!  how 
well  you're  lookin' — more  like  Cynthy  Sweet- 
land  than  I've  seen  ye  fer  I  don't  know  when; 
an'  yet,"  she  added,  looking  curiously  at  her 
guest,  "you  'pear  somehow  as  if  you'd  ben 
cryin'." 

74 


"You're  real  kind,  I'm  sure,"  responded 
Mrs.  Cullom,  replying  to  the  other's  wel 
come  and  remarks  seriatim;  "I  guess,  though, 
I  don't  look  much  like  Cynthy  Sweetland,  if 
I  do  feel  twenty  years  younger  'n  I  did  a  while 
ago;  an'  I  have  ben  cryin',  I  allow,  but  not  fer 
sorro',  Polly  Harum,"  she  exclaimed,  giving 
the  other  her  maiden  name.  "  Your  brother 
Dave  comes  putty  nigh  to  bein'  an  angel! " 

"Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  a 
twinkle,  "I  reckon  Dave  might  hev  to  be 
fixed  up  some  afore  he  come  out  in  that  per- 
tic'ler  shape,  but,"  she  added  impressively, 
"es  fur  as  bein'  a  man  goes,  he's  'bout  's 
good  's  they  make  'em.  I  know  folks  thinks 
he's  a  hard  bargainer,  an'  close-fisted,  an' 
some  on  'em  that  ain't  fit  to  lick  up  his  tracks 
says  more'n  that.  He's  got  his  own  ways, 
I'll  allow,  but  down  at  bottom,  an'  all  through, 
I  know  the'  ain't  no  better  man  livin'.  No, 
ma'am,  the'  ain't,  an'  what  he's  ben  to  me, 
Cynthy  Cullom,  nobody  knows  but  me — an' 
—an' — mebbe  the  Lord — though  I  hev  seen 
the  time,"  she  said  tentatively,  "when  it 
seemed  to  me  't  I  knowed  more  about  my 
affairs  'n  He  did,"  and  she  looked  doubtfully 
at  her  companion,  who  had  been  following 
her  with  affirmative  and  sympathetic  nods, 

75 


and  now  drew  her  chair  a  little  closer,  and 
said  softly:  "Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  ben  putty 
doubtful  an'  rebellious  myself  a  good  many 
times,  but  seems  now  as  if  He  had  had  me  in 
His  mercy  all  the  time."  Here  Aunt  Polly's 
sense  of  humor  asserted  itself.  "  What's  Dave 
ben  up  to  now?"  she  asked. 

And  then  the  widow  told  her  story,  with 
tears  and  smiles,  and  the  keen  enjoyment 
which  we  all  have  in  talking  about  ourselves 
to  a  sympathetic  listener  like  Aunt  Polly, 
whose  interjections  pointed  and  illuminated 
the  narrative.  When  it  was  finished  she 
leaned  forward  and  kissed  Mrs.  Cullom  on  the 
cheek. 

"  I  can't  tell  ye  how  glad  I  be  for  ye,"  she 
said;  "but  if  I'd  known  that  David  held  that 
morgige,  I  could  hev  told  ye  ye  needn't  hev 
worried  yourself  a  mite.  He  wouldn't  never 
have  taken  your  prop'ty,  more'n  he'd  rob  a 
hen-roost.  But  he  done  the  thing  his  own 
way — kind  o'  fetched  it  round  fer  a  Merry 
Chris'mus,  didn't  he?" 


76 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAVID'S  house  stood  about  a  hundred  feet 
back  from  the  street,  facing  the  east.  The 
main  body  of  the  house  was  of  two  stones 
(through  which  ran  a  deep  bay  in  front),  with 
mansard  roof.  On  the  south  were  two  stories 
of  the  "wing,"  in  which  were  the  "settin' 
room,"  Aunt  Polly's  room,  and,  above,  Dav 
id's  quarters.  Ten  minutes  or  so  before  one 
o'clock  John  rang  the  bell  at  the  front  door. 

"Sairy's  busy,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  apolo 
getically  as  she  let  him  in,  "an"  so  I  come  to 
the  door  myself." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John. 
"Mr.  Harum  told  me  to  come  over  a  little 
before  one,  but  perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
waited  a  few  minutes  longer." 

"No,  it's  all  right,"  she  replied,  "for 
mebbe  you'd  like  to  wash  an'  fix  up  'fore 
dinner,  so  I'll  jes'  show  ye  where  to,"  and 
she  led  the  way  upstairs  and  into  the  "front 
parlor  bedroom." 

77 


"There,"  she  said,  "make  yourself  com- 
f  table,  an'  dinner  '11  be  ready  in  about  ten 
minutes." 

For  a  moment  John  mentally  rubbed  his 
eyes.  Then  he  turned  and  caught  both  of 
Mrs.  Bixbee's  hands  and  looked  at  her, 
speechless.  When  he  found  words  he  said: 
"I  don't  know  what  to  say,  nor  how  to 
thank  you  properly.  I  don't  believe  you 
know  how  kind  this  is." 

"Don't  say  nothin'  about  it,"  she  pro 
tested,  but  with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction. 
"I  done  it  jes'  t'  relieve  my  mind,  because 
ever  sence  you  fus'  come  I  ben  worryin'  over 
your  bein'  at  that  nasty  tavern,"  and  she 
made  a  motion  to  go. 

"You  and  your  brother,"  said  John  ear 
nestly,  still  holding  her  hands,  "have  made  me 
a  gladder  and  happier  man  this  Christmas  day 
than  I  have  been  for  a  very  long  time." 

"I'm  glad  on't,"  she  said  heartily,  "an1  I 
hope  you'll  be  comf 'table  an'  contented  here. 
I  must  go  now  an'  help  Sairy  dish  up.  Come 
down  to  the  settin'  room  when  you're  ready," 
and  she  gave  his  hands  a  little  squeeze. 

"Aunt  Po ,  1  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Bix- 

bee,"  said  John,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse, 

"do  you  think  you  could  find  it  in  your  heart 

78 


DAVID  HARUM,  Act  III 


to  complete  my  happiness  by  giving  me  a 
kiss?  It's  Christmas,  you  know,"  he  added 
smilingly. 

Aunt  Polly  colored  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  "  Wa'al,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh, 
"seein'  't  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother, 
I  guess  't  won't  hurt  me  none,"  and  as  she 
went  down  the  stairs  she  softly  rubbed  her 
lips  with  the  side  of  her  forefinger. 

John  understood  now  why  David  had 
looked  out  of  the  bank  window  so  often  that 
morning.  All  his  belongings  were  in  Aunt 
Polly's  best  bedroom,  having  been  moved 
over  from  the  Eagle  while  he  and  David  had 
been  in  the  office.  A  delightful  room  it  was, 
in  immeasurable  contrast  to  his  squalid  sur 
roundings  at  that  hostelry.  The  spacious 
bed,  with  its  snowy  counterpane  and  silk 
patchwork  "comf 'table"  folded  on  the  foot, 
the  bright  fire  in  the  open  stove,  the  big 
bureau  and  glass,  the  soft  carpet,  the  table  for 
writing  and  reading  standing  in  the  bay,  his 
books  on  the  broad  mantel,  and  his  dressing 
things  laid  out  ready  to  his  hand,  not  to  men 
tion  an  ample  supply  of  dry  towels  on  the 
rack. 

The  poor  fellow's  life  during  the  weeks 
which  he  had  lived  in  Homeville  had  been 
80 


utterly  in  contrast  with  any  previous  experi 
ence.  Nevertheless  he  had  tried  to  make  the 
best  of  it,  and  to  endure  the  monotony,  the 
dullness,  the  entire  lack  of  companionship  and 
entertainment  with  what  philosophy  he  could 
muster.  The  hours  spent  in  the  office  were 
the  best  part  of  the  day.  He  could  manage  to 
find  occupation  for  all  of  them,  though  a  vil 
lage  bank  is  not  usually  a  scene  of  active 
bustle.  Many  of  the  people  who  did  busi 
ness  there  diverted  him  somewhat,  and  most 
of  them  seemed  never  too  much  in  a  hurry  to 
stand  around  and  talk  the  sort  of  thing  that 
interested  them.  After  John  had  got  ac 
quainted  with  his  duties  and  the  people  he 
came  in  contact  with,  David  gave  less  per 
sonal  attention  to  the  affairs  of  the  bank;  but 
he  was  in  and  out  frequently  during  the  day, 
and  rarely  failed  to  interest  his  cashier  with 
his  observations  and  remarks. 

But  the  long  winter  evenings  had  been 
very  bad.  After  supper,  a  meal  which  re 
volted  every  sense,  there  had  been  as  many 
hours  to  be  got  through  with  as  he  found 
wakeful,  an  empty  stomach  often  adding  to 
the  number  of  them,  and  the  only  resource  for 
passing  the  time  had  been  reading,  which  had 
often  been  well-nigh  impossible  for  sheer 
81 


physical  discomfort.  As  has  been  remarked, 
the  winter  climate  of  the  middle  portion  of 
New  York  State  is  as  bad  as  can  be  imagined. 
His  light  was  a  kerosene  lamp  of  half-candle 
power,  and  his  appliance  for  warmth  con 
sisted  of  a  small  wood  stove,  which  (as  David 
would  have  expressed  it)  "took  two  men  an' 
a  boy  "  to  keep  in  action,  and  was  either  red 
hot  or  exhausted. 

As  from  the  depths  of  a  spacious  lounging 
chair  he  surveyed  his  new  surroundings,  and 
contrasted  them  with  those  from  which  he 
had  been  rescued  out  of  pure  kindness,  his 
heart  was  full,  and  it  can  hardly  be  imputed 
to  him  as  a  weakness  that  for  a  moment  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears  of  gratitude  and  happi 
ness — no  less. 

Indeed,  there  were  four  happy  people  at 
David's  table  that  Christmas  day.  Aunt  Polly 
had  "smartened  up"  Mrs.  Cullom  with  collar 
and  cuffs,  and  in  various  ways  which  the 
mind  of  man  comprehendeth  not  in  detail;  and 
there  had  been  some  arranging  of  her  hair  as 
well,  which  altogether  had  so  transformed 
and  transfigured  her  that  John  thought  that  he 
should  hardly  have  known  her  for  the  forlorn 
creature  whom  he  had  encountered  in  the 
morning.  And  as  he  looked  at  the  still  fine 
82 


eyes,  large  and  brown,  and  shining  for  the  first 
time  in  many  a  year  with  a  soft  light  of  happi 
ness,  he  felt  that  he  could  understand  how 
it  was  that  Billy  P.  had  married  the  village 
girl. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  was  grand  in  black  silk  and 
lace  collar  fastened  with  a  shell- cameo  pin  not 
quite  as  large  as  a  saucer,  and  John  caught  the 
sparkle  of  a  diamond  on  her  plump  left  hand 
—David's  Christmas  gift — with  regard  to 
which  she  had  spoken  apologetically  to  Mrs. 
Cullom: 

"I  told  David  that  I  was  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  him,  but  I  didn't  want  a  dimun' 
more'n  a  cat  wanted  a  flag,  an'  I  thought  it 
was  jes'  throwin'  away  money.  But  he  would 
have  it — said  I  c  d  sell  it  an'  keep  out  the  poor- 
house  some  day,  mebbe." 

David  had  not  made  much  change  in  his 
usual  raiment,  but  he  was  shaved  to  the  blood, 
and  his  round  red  face  shone  with  soap  and 
satisfaction.  As  he  tucked  his  napkin  into  his 
shirt  collar,  Sairy  brought  in  the  tureen  of 
oyster  soup,  and  he  remarked,  as  he  took  his 
first  spoonful  of  the  stew,  that  he  was  "hun 
gry  'nough  t'  eat  a  graven  imidge,"  a  condi 
tion  that  John  was  able  to  sympathize  with 
after  his  two  days  of  fasting  on  crackers  and 
83 


such  provisions  as  he  could  buy  at  Purse's. 
It  was,  on  the  whole,  he  reflected,  the  most 
enjoyable  dinner  that  he  ever  ate.  Never  was 
such  a  turkey;  and  to  see  it  give  way  under 
David's  skillful  knife — wings,  drumsticks,  sec 
ond  joints,  side  bones,  breast — was  an  elevat 
ing  and  memorable  experience.  And  such 
potatoes,  mashed  in  cream;  such  boiled  on 
ions,  turnips,  Hubbard  squash,  succotash, 
stewed  tomatoes,  celery,  cranberries,  "currant 
jell!"  Oh!  and  to  "top  off"  with,  a  mince 
pie  to  die  for  and  a  pudding  (new  to  John,  but 
just  you  try  it  some  time)  of  steamed  Indian 
meal  and  fruit,  with  a  sauce  of  cream  sweet 
ened  with  shaved  maple  sugar. 

"What'll  you  have?"  said  David  to  Mrs. 
Cullom,  "dark  meat?  white  meat?" 

"  Anything,"  she  replied  meekly,  "  I'm  not 
partic'ler.  Most  any  part  of  a  turkey  '11  taste 
good,  I  guess." 

"All  right,"  said  David.  "Don't  care 
means  a  little  o'  both.  I  alwus  know  what  to 
give  Polly — piece  o'  the  second  jint  an'  the 
last-thing-over-the-fence.  Nice  'n  rich  fer 
scraggly  folks, "  he  remarked.  ' '  How  fer  you, 
John  ? — little  o'  both,  eh  ?"  and  he  heaped  the 
plate  till  our  friend  begged  him  to  keep  some 
thing  for  himself. 

84 


"Little  too  much  is  jes'  right,"  he  as 
serted. 

When  David  had  filled  the  plates  and 
handed  them  along — Sairy  was  for  bringing  in 
and  taking  out;  they  did  their  own  helping  to 
vegetables  and  "  passin'  "—he  hesitated  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  got  out  of  his  chair  and  started 
in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen  door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee 
in  surprise.  "Where  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Woodshed!  "  said  David. 

"Woodshed! "  she  exclaimed,  making  as 
if  to  rise  and  follow. 

"You  set  still,"  said  David.  "  Somethin' 
I  fergot" 

"  What  on  earth  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an 
air  of  annoyance  and  bewilderment.  "  What 
do  you  want  in  the  woodshed  ?  Can't  you 
set  down  an'  let  Sairy  git  it  fer  ye  ?" 

"No,"  he  asserted  with  a  grin.  "Sairy 
might  sqush  it.  It  must  be  putty  meller  by 
this  time."  And  out  he  went. 

"Manners!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bixbee. 
"You'll  think  (to  John)  we're  reg'ler  hea- 
thin'." 

' '  I  guess  not, "  said  John,  smiling  and  much 
amused. 

Presently  Sairy  appeared  with  four  tumblers 
7  85 


which  she  distributed,  and  was  followed  by 
David  bearing  a  bottle.  He  seated  himself  and 
began  a  struggle  to  unwire  the  same  with  an 
ice-pick.  Aunt  Polly  leaned  forward  with  a 
look  of  perplexed  curiosity. 

"  What  you  got  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Vewve  Clikot's  universal  an'  suv'rin  rem 
edy,"  said  David,  reading  the  label  and  bring 
ing  the  corners  of  his  eye  and  mouth  almost 
together  in  a  wink  to  John,  "fer  toothache, 
earache,  burns,  scalds,  warts,  dispepsy,  fallin' 
o'  the  hair,  windgall,  ringbone,  spavin,  disap- 
p'inted  affections,  an'  pips  in  hens,"  and  out 
came  the  cork  with  a  "wop,"  at  which  both 
the  ladies,  even  Mrs.  Cullom,  jumped  and  cried 
out. 

"David  Harum,"  declared  his  sister  with 

conviction,   "I  believe  thet  that's  a  bottle  of 

w    » 
charapagne. 

"If  it  ain't,"  said  David,  pouring  into  his 
tumbler,  "I  ben  swindled  out  o'  four  shillin'," 
and  he  passed  the  bottle  to  John,  who  held  it 
up  inquiringly,  looking  at  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  No,  thank  ye,"  she  said  with  a  little  toss 
of  the  head,  "  I'm  a  son  o'  temp'rence.  I  don't 
believe,"  she  remarked  to  Mrs.  Cullom,  "thet 
that  bottle  ever  cost  less  'n  a  dollar."  At 
which  remarks  David  apparently  "swallered 

86 


somethin'  the  wrong  way."  and  for  a  moment 
or  two  was  unable  to  proceed  with  his  dinner. 
Aunt  Polly  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  •"  It  was 
her  experience  that,  in  her  intercourse  with 
her  brother,  he  often  laughed  utterly  without 
reason — so  far  as  she  could  see. 

"  I've  always  heard  it  was  dreadful  expen 
sive,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"Let  me  give  you  some,"  said  John, 
reaching  toward  her  with  the  bottle.  Mrs. 
Cullom  looked  first  at  Mrs.  Bixbee  and  then 
at  David. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  never  tasted 
any." 

"Take  a  little,"  said  David,  nodding  ap 
provingly. 

"Just  a  swallow,"  said  the  widow,  whose 
curiosity  had  got  the  better  of  scruples.  She 
took  a  swallow  of  the  wine. 

"  How  do  you  like  it,"  asked  David. 

"Well,"  she  said  as  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
into  which  the  gas  had  driven  the  tears,  "I 
guess  I  could  get  along  if  I  couldn't  have  it 
regular. " 

"  Don't  taste  good  ?  "  suggested  David  with 
a  grin. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "I  never  did  care  any 
great  for  cider,  and  this  tastes  to  me  about  as 
87 


if  I  was  drinkin'  cider  an'  snuffin'  horseradish 
at  one  and  the  same  time." 

"  How's  that,  John  ?  "  said  David,  laughing. 

"I  suppose  it's  an  acquired  taste,"  said 
John,  returning  the  laugh  and  taking  a  mouth 
ful  of  the  wine  with  infinite  relish.  "1  don't 
think  I  ever  enjoyed  a  glass  of  wine  so  much, 
or,"  turning  to  Aunt  Polly,  "ever  enjoyed  a 
dinner  so  much,"  which  statement  completely 
mollified  her  feelings,  which  had  been  the  least 
bit  in  the  world  "set  edgeways." 

"Mebbe  your  app'tite's  got  somethin'  to 
do  with  it,"  said  David,  shoveling  a  knife-load 
of  good  things  into  his  mouth.  "Polly,  this 
young  man's  ben  livin'  on  crackers  an'  salt 
herrin'  fer  a  week." 

"My  land!"  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  an 
expression  of  horror.  "Is  that  reelly  so? 
'T  ain:t  now,  reelly?" 

' '  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that, "  John  answered, 
smiling;  "but  Mrs.  Elright  has  been  ill  for  a 
couple  of  days  and — well,  I  have  been  forag 
ing  around  Purse's  store  a  little." 

"  Wa'al,  of  all  the  mean  shames!"  ex 
claimed  Aunt  Polly  indignantly.  "David 
Harum,  you'd  ought  to  be  ridic'lous  t'  allow 
such  a  thing." 

"Wa'al,  I  never!"  said  David,  holding  his 


knife  and  fork  straight  up  in  either  fist  as  they 
rested  on  the  table,  and  staring  at  his  sister. 
"I  believe  if  the  meetin'-house  roof  was  to 
blow  off  you'd  lay  it  on  to  me  somehow.  I 
hain't  ben  runnin'  the  Eagle  tavern  fer  quite  a 
consid'able  while.  You  got  the  wrong  pig  by 
the  ear  as  usual.  Jes'  you  pitch  into  him," 
pointing  with  his  fork  to  John.  "It's  his 
funeral,  if  anybody's." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  addressing  John 
in  a  tone  of  injury,  "1  do  think  you  might 
have  let  somebody  know;  I  think  you'd  ortter 
've  known— 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Bixbee,"  he  interrupted,  "I 
did  know  how  kind  you  are  and  would  have 
been,  and  if  matters  had  gone  on  so  much 
longer  I  should  have  appealed  to  you,  I  should 
have  indeed;  but  really,"  he  added,  smiling 
at  her,  "a  dinner  like  this  is  worth  fasting  a 
week  for." 

"Wa'al,"  she  said,  mollified  again,  "you 
won't  git  no  more  herrin'  'nless  you  ask  for 
'em." 

"That  is  just  what  your  brother  said  this 
morning,"  replied  John,  looking  at  David  with 
a  laugh. 


90 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  meal  proceeded  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes.  Mrs.  Cullom  had  said  but  little,  but 
John  noticed  that  her  diction  was  more  con 
ventional  than  in  her  talk  with  David  and 
himself  in  the  morning,  and  that  her  manner 
at  the  table  was  distinctly  refined,  although  she 
ate  with  apparent  appetite,  not  to  say  hunger. 
Presently  she  said,  with  an  air  of  making  con 
versation,  "I  suppose  you've  always  lived  in 
the  city,  Mr.  Lenox  ?  " 

"It  has  always  been  my  home,"  he  re 
plied,  "but  I  have  been  away  a  good 
deal." 

"I  suppose  folks  in  the  city  go  to  theaters 
a  good  deal,"  she  remarked. 

"  They  have  a  great  many  opportunities," 
said  John,  wondering  what  she  was  leading 
up  to.  But  he  was  not  to  discover,  for  David 
broke  in  with  a  chuckle. 

"Ask  Polly,  Mis'  Cullom,"  he  said.  "She 
c'n  tell  ye  all  about  the  theater,  Polly  kin." 
91 


Mrs.  Cullom  looked  from  David  to  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee,  whose  face  was  suffused. 

"Tell  her,"  said  David,  with  a  grin. 

"I  wish  you'd  shet  up,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  sha'n't  do  nothin'  of  the  sort." 

"Ne*  mind,"  said  David  cheerfully.     "777 
tell  ye,  Mis'  Cullom." 

"Dave  Harum!"  expostulated  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee,  but  he  proceeded  without  heed  of  her 
protest. 

"Polly  an'  I,"  he  said,  "went  down  to 
New  York  one  spring  some  years  ago.  Her 
nerves  was  some  wore  out  'long  of  diffrences 
with  Sairy  about  clearin'  up  the  woodshed, 
an'  bread  risin's,  an'  not  bein'  able  to  suit  her 
self  up  to  Purse's  in  the  qual'ty  of  silk  velvit 
she  wanted  fer  a  Sunday-go-to-meetin'  gown, 
an'  I  thought  a  spell  off  'd  do  her  good. 
Wa'al,  the  day  after  we  got  there  I  says  to 
her  while  we  was  havin'  breakfust — it  was 
picked-up  el'phant  on  toast,  near  's  1  c'n 
remember,  wa'n't  it,  Polly?" 

"That's  as  near  the  truth  as  most  o'  the 
rest  on't  so  fur."  said  Polly  with  a  sniff. 

"Wa'al,  I  says  to  her,"  he  proceeded,  un 
touched  by  her  scorn,  "  '  How'd  you  like  to 
go  t' the  theater?    You   hain't   never  ben,'  I 
says,  'an'  now  you're   down   here   you  may 
92 


jes'  as  well  see  somethin'  while  you  got  a 
chanst,'  I  says.  Up  to  that  time,"  he  re 
marked,  as  it  were  in  passing,  "she'd  ben 
somewhat  prejuced  'ginst  theaters,  an'— 

"Wa'al,"  Mrs.  Bixbee  broke  in,  "I  guess 
what  we  see  that  night  was  cal'lated— 

"You  hold  on,"  he  interposed.  "I'm 
tellin'  this  story.  You  had  a  chanst  to  an' 
wouldn't.  Anyway,"  he  resumed,  "she 
allowed  she'd  try  it  once,  an'  we  agreed  we'd 
go  somewheres  that  night.  But  somethin' 
happened  to  put  it  out  o'  my  mind,  an'  I 
didn't  think  on't  agin  till  I  got  back  to  the 
hotel  fer  supper.  So  I  went  to  the  feller  at  the 
news-stand  an'  says,  '  Got  any  show-tickits 
fer  to-night  ? ' 

"  'Theater?'  he  says. 

"  '  I  reckon  so,'  I  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  he  says,  'I  hain't  got  nothin' 
now  but  two  seats  fer  "  Clyanthy." 

"  '  Is  it  a  good  show  ? '  I  says — '  moral,  an' 
so  on  ?  I'm  goin'  to  take  my  sister,  an'  she's 
a  little  pertic'ler  about  some  things,'  I  says. 
He  kind  o'  grinned,  the  feller  did.  '  I've  took 
my  wife  twice,  an'  she's  putty  pertic'ler  her 
self,'  he  says,  laughin'." 

"She  must 'a'  ben,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bixbee 
with  a  sniff  that  spoke  volumes  of  her  opin- 

93 


ion  of  "the  feller's  wife."  David  emitted  a 
chuckle. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  continued,  "  I  took  the  tickits 
on  the  feller's  recommend,  an'  the  fact  of  his 
wife's  bein'  so  pertic'ler,  an'  after  supper  we 
went.  It  was  a  mighty  handsome  place 
inside,  gilded  an'  carved  all  over  like  the  out 
side  of  a  cirkis  wagin,  an'  when  we  went  in 
the  orchestry  was  playin'  an'  the  people  was 
comin'  in,  an'  after  we'd  set  a  few  minutes  1 
says  to  Polly,  '  What  do  you  think  on't  ? '  I 
says. 

"  '  I  don't  see  anythin'  very  unbecomin'  so 
fur,  an'  the  people  looks  respectable  enough,' 
she  says. 

"  '  No  jail  birds  in  sight  fur  's  ye  c'n  see  so 
fur,  be  they  ? '  I  says.  He,  he,  he,  he!  " 

'"You  needn't  make  me  out  more  of  a 
gump  'n  1  was,"  protested  Mrs.  Bixbee. 
"An'  you  was  jest  as —  David  held  up 
his  finger  at  her. 

"Don't  you  sp'ile  the  story  by  discountin' 
the  sequil.  Wa'al,  putty  soon  the  band  struck 
up  some  kind  of  a  dancin'  tune,  an'  the  cur- 
t'in  went  up,  an'  a  girl  come  prancin'  down  to 
the  footlights  an'  begun  singin'  an'  dancin', 
an',  scat  my  -  — !  to  all  human  appearances 
you  c'd  'a'  covered  ev'ry  dum  thing  she  had 
94 


on  with  a  postage  stamp."  John  stole  a 
glance  at  Mrs.  Cullom.  She  was  staring  at 
the  speaker  with  wide-open  eyes  of  horror 
and  amazement. 

"  I  guess  I  wouldn't  go  very  fur  into  per- 
tic'lers,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  in  a  warning  tone. 

David  bent  his  head  down  over  his  plate 
and  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  it  was 
nearly  a  minute  before  he  was  able  to  go  on. 
"Wa'al,"  he  said,  "I  heard  Polly  give  a  kind 
of  a  gasp  an'  a  snort,  's  if  some  one  'd  throwed 
water  'n  her  face.  But  she  didn't  say  nothin', 
an',  I  swan!  I  didn't  dast  to  look  at  her  fer  a 
spell;  an'  putty  soon  in  come  a  hull  crowd 
more  girls  that  had  left  their  clo'es  in  their 
trunks  or  somewhere,  singin',  an'  dancin',  an' 
weavin'  'round  on  the  stage,  an'  after  a  few 
minutes  I  turned  an'  looked  at  Polly.  He,  he, 
he,  he!  " 

"David  Harum,"  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  ef 
you're  goin'  to  discribe  any  more  o'  them 
scand'lous  goin's  on  I  sh'll  take  my  victuals 
into  the  kitchen.  /  didn't  see  no  more  of 
"em,"  she  added  to  Mrs.  Cullom  and  John, 
"  after  that  fust  trollop  appeared." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  did,"  said  David,  "fer 
when  I  turned  she  set  there  with  her  eyes 
shut  tighter  'n  a  drum,  an'  her  mouth  shut 

95 


too  so's  her  nose  an'  chin  most  come 
together,  an'  her  face  was  red  enough  so  't  a 
streak  o'  red  paint  'd  'a'  made  a  white  mark 
on  it.  'Polly,'  I  says,  'I'm  afraid  you  ain't 
gettin'  the  wuth  o'  your  money.' 

"'David  Harum,'  she  says,  with  her 
mouth  shut  all  but  a  little  place  in  the  cor 
ner  toward  me,  'if  you  don't  take  me  out 
o'  this  place,  I'll  go  without  ye,'  she  says. 

"  '  Don't  you  think  you  c'd  stan'  it  a  little 
longer  ? '  I  says.  '  Mebbe  they've  sent  home 
fer  their  clo'es,'  I  says.  He,  he,  he.  he!  But 
with  that  she  jes'  give  a  hump  to  start,  an'  I 
see  she  meant  bus'nis.  When  Polly  Bixbee," 
said  David  impressively,  "puts  that  foot 
o'  her'n  down  somethin's  got  to  sqush,  an' 
don't  you  fergit  it."  Mrs.  Bixbee  made 
no  acknowledgment  of  this  tribute  to 
her  strength  of  character.  John  looked  at 
David. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  solemn  bend  of 
the  head,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  question,  "I 
squshed.  I  says  to  her,  '  All  right.  Don't 
make  no  disturbance  mqre'n  you  c'n  help,  an' 
jes'  put  your  hank'chif  up  to  your  nose  's  if 
you  had  the  nosebleed,'  an'  we  squeezed  out 
of  the  seats,  an'  sneaked  up  the  aisle,  an'  by 
the  time  we  got  out  into  the  entry  I  guess  my 
96 


face  was  as  red  as  Polly's.  It  couldn't  'a'  ben 
no  redder,"  he  added. 

"You  got  a  putty  fair  color  as  a  gen'ral 
thing,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bixbee  dryly. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am,  I  expect  that's 
so,"  he  assented,  "but  I  got  an  extra  coat  o' 
tan  follerin'  you  out  o'  that  theater.  When 
we  got  out  into  the  entry  one  o'  them  fellers 
that  stands  'round  steps  up  to  me  an'  says, 
'  Ain't  your  ma  feelin'  well  ? '  he  says.  '  Her 
feelin's  has  ben  a  trifle  rumpled  up,'  I  says, 
'an'  that  gen'ally  brings  on  the  nosebleed,' 
an'  then,"  said  David,  looking  over  Mrs.  Bix- 
bee's  head,  "the  feller  went  an'  leaned  up 
agin  the  wall." 

"David  Harum !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
"  that's  a  downright  lie.  You  never  spoke  to 
a  soul,  an' — an' — ev'rybody  knows  't  I  ain't 
more  'n  four  years  older  'n  you  be." 

"  Wa'al,  you  see,  Polly,"  her  brother  re 
plied  in  a  smooth  tone  of  measureless  aggra 
vation,  "the  feller  wa'n't  acquainted  with  us, 
an'  he  only  went  by  appearances." 

Aunt  Polly  appealed  to  John  :  "Ain't  he 
enough  to — to — I  d'  know  what?" 

"  I  really  don't  see  how  you  live  with 
him,"  said  John,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Cullom's  face  wore  a  faint  smile,  as 
97 


if  she  were  conscious  that  something  amusing 
was  going  on,  but  was  not  quite  sure  what. 
The  widow  took  things  seriously  for  the  most 
part,  poor  soul. 

"I  reckon  you  haven't  followed  theater- 
goin'  much  after  that,"  she  said  to  her 
hostess. 

"No,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Bixbee  replied  with 
emphasis,  "you  better  believe  I  hain't.  I 
hain't  never  thought  of  it  sence  without  tin- 
glin'  all  over.  I  believe,"  she  asserted,  "that 
David  'd  'a'  stayed  the  thing  out  if  it  hadn't 
ben  fer  me;  but  as  true  's  you  live,  Cynthy 
Cullom,  I  was  so  'shamed  at  the  little  't  I  did 
see  that  when  I  come  to  go  to  bed  I  took  my 
clo'es  off  in  the  dark." 

David  threw  back  his  head  and  roared 
with  laughter.  Mrs.  Bixbee  looked  at  him 
with  unmixed  scorn.  "If  I  couldn't  help 
makin'  a "  she  began,  "I'd " 

"Oh,  Lord!  Polly,"  David  broke  in,  "be 
sure  'n  wrap  up  when  you  go  out.  If  you 
sh'd  ketch  cold  an'  your  sense  o'  the  ridic'lous 
sh'd  strike  in  you'd  be  a  dead-'n'-goner  sure." 
This  was  treated  with  the  silent  contempt 
which  it  deserved,  and  David  fell  upon  his 
dinner  with  the  remark  that  "he  guessed 
he'd  better  make  up  fer  lost  time,"  though  as 
98 


a  matter  of  fact  while  he  had  done  most  of 
the  talking  he  had  by  no  means  suspended 
another  function  of  his  mouth  while  so 
engaged. 

For  a  time  nothing  more  was  said  which 
did  not  relate  to  the  replenishment  of  plates, 
glasses,  and  cups.  Finally  David  cleaned  up 
his  plate  with  his  knife  blade  and  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  pushed  it  away  with  a  sigh  of  full 
ness,  mentally  echoed  by  John. 

"I  feel  's  if  a  child  could  play  with 
me,"  he  remarked.  "What's  comin'  now, 
Polly?" 

"The's  a  mince  pie,  an'  Injun  puddin' 
with  maple  sugar  an'  cream,  an'  ice  cream," 
she  replied. 

"Mercy  on  us!  "  he  exclaimed.  "I  guess 
I'll  have  to  go  an'  jump  up  an'  down  on  the 
verandy.  How  do  you  feel,  John  ?  I  s'pose 
you  got  so  used  to  them  things  at  the  Eagle  't 
you  won't  have  no  stomech  fer  'em,  eh  ? 
Wa'al,  fetch  'em  along.  May  's  well  die  fer 
the  ole  sheep  's  the  lamb;  but,  Polly  Bixbee, 
if  you've  got  designs  on  my  life,  I  may  's  well 
tell  ye  right  now  't  I've  left  all  my  prop'ty 
to  the  Institution  fer  Disappinted  Hoss 
Swappers." 

"That's  putty  near  next  o'  kin,  ain't  it?" 

100 


was  the  unexpected  rejoinder  of  the  injured 
Polly. 

"Wa'al,  scat  my—  — !"  exclaimed  David, 
hugely  amused,  "if  Polly  Bixbee  hain't  made 
a  joke!  You'll  git  yourself  into  the  almanic, 
Polly,  fust  thing  you  know."  Sairy  brought 
in  the  pie  and  then  the  pudding. 

"John,"  said  David,  "if  you've  got  a 
pencil  an'  a  piece  o'  paper  handy  I'd  like  to 
have  ye  take  down  a  few  of  my  last  words 
'fore  we  proceed  to  the  pie  an'  puddin'  bus'- 
nis.  Any  more  '  hossredish  '  in  that  bottle  ?  " 
holding  out  his  glass.  "  Hi,  hi!  that's  enough. 
You  take  the  rest  on't,"  which  John  did, 
nothing  loath. 

David  ate  his  pie  in  silence,  but  before  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  attack  the  pudding, 
which  was  his  favorite  confection,  he  gave  an 
audible  chuckle,  which  elicited  Mrs.  Bixbee's 
notice. 

"What  you  gigglin'  'bout  now?"  she 
asked. 

David  laughed.  "  I  was  thinkin'  of  some- 
thin'  I  heard  up  to  Purse's  last  night,"  he 
said  as  he  covered  his  pudding  with  the  thick 
cream  sauce.  "Amri  Shapless  has  ben  gittin' 
married." 

"Wa'al,  I  declare!"  she  exclaimed. 
8  101 


"That  ole  shack!  Who  in  creation  could 
he  git  to  take  him  ?  " 

"  Lize  Annis  is  the  lucky  woman,"  replied 
David  with  a  grin. 

"Wa'al,  if  that  don't  beat  all!"  said  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  throwing  up  her  hands,  and  even 
from  Mrs.  Cullom  was  drawn  a  "Well,  I 
never! " 

"Fact,"  said  David,  "they  was  married 
yestidy  forenoon.  Squire  Parker  done  the 
job.  Dominie  White  wouldn't  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  it! " 

"Squire  Parker  'd  ortter  be  'shamed  of 
himself,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  indignantly. 

"Don't  you  think  that  trew  love  had 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  take  its  course  ? " 
asked  David  with  an  air  of  sentiment. 

"I  think  the  squire  'd  ortter  be  'shamed 
of  himself,"  she  reiterated.  "S'pose  them 
two  old  skinamulinks  was  to  go  an'  have 
children  ?  " 

"Polly,  you  make  me  blush,"  protested 
her  brother.  "Hain't  you  got  no  respect  fer 
the  holy  institution  of  matrimuny  ? — and — at 
cet'ry  ? "  he  added,  wiping  his  whole  face 
with  his  napkin. 

"Much  as  you  hev,  I  reckon,"  she  re 
torted.  "Of  all  the  amazin'  things  in  this 
102 


world,  the  amazinist  to  me  is  the  kind  of 
people  that  gits  married  to  each  other  in  gen'- 
ral;  but  this  here  performence  beats  ev'rything 
holler." 

"  Amri  give  a  very  good  reason  for't,"  said 
David  with  an  air  of  conviction,  and  then  he 
broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Ef  you  got  anythin'  to  tell,  tell  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Bixbee  impatiently. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  the  last  of 
his  pudding  into  his  mouth,  "if  you  insist 
on't,  painful  as  't  is.  I  heard  Dick  Larrabee 
tellin'  'bout  it.  Amri  told  Dick  day  before 
yestiday  that  he  was  thinkin'  of  gettin'  mar 
ried,  an'  ast  him  to  go  along  with  him  to  Par 
son  White's  an'  be  a  witniss,  an'  I  reckon  a 
kind  of  moral  support.  When  it  comes  to 
moral  supportin',"  remarked  David  in  passing, 
"Dick's  as  good  's  a  professional,  an'  he'd  go 
an'  see  his  gran'mother  hung  sooner  'n  miss 
anythin',  an'  never  let  his  cigar  go  out  durin' 
the  performence.  Dick  said  he  congratilated 
Am  on  his  choice,  an'  said  he  reckoned  they'd 
be  putty  ekally  yoked  together,  if  nothin'  else." 

Here  David  leaned  over  toward  Aunt  Polly 

and  said,  protestingly,  "Don't  gi'  me  but  jest 

a  teasp'nful  o'  that  ice  cream.    I'm  so  full  now 

't  I  can't  hardly  reach  the  table."     He  took  a 

103 


taste  of  the  cream  and  resumed  :  "I  can't  give 
it  jest  as  Dick  did,"  he  went  on,  "but  this  is 
about  the  gist  on't.  Him,  an'  Lize,  an'  Am 
went  to  Parson  White's  about  half  after  seven 
o'clock  an'  was  showed  into  the  parler,  an'  in 
a  minute  he  come  in,  an'  after  sayin'  'Good 
evenin"  all  'round,  he  says,  'Well,  what  c'n 
I  do  fer  ye  ? '  lookin'  at  Am  an'  Lize,  an'  then 
at  Dick. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  'me  an'  Mis'  Annis 
here  has  ben  thinkin'  fer  some  time  as  how 
we'd  ought  to  git  married.' 

' ' '  Ought  to  git  married  ? '  says  Parson 
White,  scowlin'  fust  at  one  an'  then  at  t'other. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  givin'  a  kind  o'  shuffle 
with  his  feet,  '  I  didn't  mean  ortter  exac'ly, 
but  jest  as  well — kinder  comp'ny,'  he  says. 
'  We  hain't  neither  on  us  got  nobody,  an'  we 
thought  we  might  's  well.' 

"  '  What  have  you  got  to  git  married  on  ? ' 
says  the  dominie  after  a  minute.  '  Anythin'?' 
he  says. 

"'Wa'al,'  says  Am,  droppin'  his  head 
sideways  an'  borin'  into  his  ear  'ith  his  middle 
finger,  '  I  got  the  promise  mebbe  of  a  job 
o'  work  fer  a  couple  o'  days  next  week.' 
'H'm'm'm,'  says  the  dominie,  lookin'  at  him. 
'  Have  you  got  anythin'  to  git  married  on  ? ' 
104 


the  dominie  says,  turnin'  to  Lize.  '  I've  got 
ninety  cents  comin'  to  me  fer  some  work  I 
done  last  week,'  she  says,  wiltin'  down  on  to 
the  sofy  an'  beginnin'  to  snivvle.  Dick  says 
that  at  that  the  dominie  turned  round  an' 
walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  an' 
he  c'd  see  he  was  dyin'  to  laugh,  but  he  come 
back  with  a  straight  face. 

"'How  old  air  you,  Shapless?'  he  says 
to  Am.  '  I'll  be  fifty-eight  or  mebbe  fifty- 
nine  come  next  spring,'  says  Am. 

'"How  old  air  you?'  the  dominie  says, 
turnin'  to  Lize.  She  wriggled  a  minute  an' 
says,  '  Wa'al,  I  reckon  I'm  all  o'  thirty,'  she 
says." 

"All  o'  thirty!  '  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly. 
"  The  woman  's  most  's  old  's  I  be." 

David  laughed  and  went  on  with,  "  Wa'al, 
Dick  said  at  that  the  dominie  give  a  kind  of  a 
choke,  an'  Dick  he  bust  right  out,  an'  Lize 
looked  at  him  as  if  she  c'd  eat  him.  Dick 
said  the  dominie  didn't  say  anythin'  fer  a 
minute  or  two,  an'  then  he  says  to  Am,  '  I 
suppose  you  c'n  find  somebody  that'll  marry 
you,  but  I  cert'inly  won't,  an'  what  possesses 
you  to  commit  such  a  piece  o'  folly,'  he  says, 
'passes  my  understandin'.  What  earthly  rea 
son  have  you  fer  wantin'  to  marry  ?  On  your 
105 


own  showin','  he  says,  'neither  one  on  you  's 
got  a  cent  o'  money  or  any  settled  way  o'  get- 
tin'  any.' 


"  'That's  jes'  the  very  reason,'  says  Am, 

'that's   jes'   the  very  reason.      I   hain't  got 

nothin',  an'  Mis'  Annis  hain't  got  nothin',  an' 

we  figured  that  we'd  jes'  better  git  married  an' 

106 


settle  down,  an'  make  a  good  home  fer  us 
both,'  an'  if  that  ain't  good  reasonin',"  David 
concluded,  "  I  don't  know  what  is." 

"An'  be  they  actially  married?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bixbee,  still  incredulous  of  anything  so 
preposterous. 

"So  Dick  says,"  was  the  reply.  "  He  says 
Am  an'  Lize  come  away  f m  the  dominie's 
putty  down  in  the  mouth,  but  'fore  long  Amri 
braced  up  an'  allowed  that  if  he  had  half  a 
dollar  he'd  try  the  squire  in  the  mornin',  an' 
Dick  let  him  have  it.  I  says  to  Dick,  •  You're 
out  fifty  cents  on  that  deal,'  an'  he  says,  slap- 
pin'  his  leg,  '  I  don't  give  a  dum,'  he  says;  '  I 
wouldn't  'a'  missed  it  fer  double  the  money.'" 

Here  David  folded  his  napkin  and  put  it  in 
the  ring,  and  John  finished  the  cup  of  clear 
coffee  which  Aunt  Polly,  rather  under  protest, 
had  given  him.  Coffee  without  cream  and 
sugar  was  incomprehensible  to  Mrs.  Bixbee. 


THE    END 


TUP:  T/r>, 


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